


Making it Right - Homeland Revised

by Leblanc1 (orphan_account)



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Love, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6673591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Leblanc1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begins mid-Season 3 and assumes mostly canon except Carrie & Quinn begin having sex early on. It's primarily additional scenes and a few alternate scene endings. The comedy kicks in by Ch. 3. I will attempt to post a chapter every day or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Truth & Walls

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in January when Quinn was "dead". As personal therapy (I never intended to post it), I was determined to give Quinn the HL life he deserved. That is: sex with Carrie, more banter (particularly), more laughter, more intimacy, even more fighting, yet all within the confines of canon (generally). We all know Carrie & Quinn often behave as though they're already sleeping together. Why not write it that way? 
> 
> We discovered Quinn was alive as I finished S3, hence my "muse" - white hot fury at Alex Gansa - dissipated. S4 and S5 will be finished and posted if this one is well received. 
> 
> This borrows shamelessly from innumerable fan fic authors to whom I'm eternally grateful, particularly PlumeBob's "we tried the world.." (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3162017) and SourCherryBlossom's "Internal Breach" (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3062270/chapters/6645176), a rewrite of S4. I wouldn't have gotten through Late Dec/Jan without you! Feedback is most welcome - of any kind!

Christ, she was impossible. Her confused soul poured out of her eyes and right into his. Every fucking time. Again and again her eyes would plead… for empathy, complicity, even forgiveness. It was maddening. But mostly it made him wax poetic right the fuck back.

It's always what got him. Her eyes.

Even her lying had a weird honesty to it. She could lie to herself better than anyone and, damn, if she didn't believe it with every cell of her beautiful, crazy mind. Over and over she would beg him to understand, to buy into her passion and madness, or passionate madness. It all got so fucking jumbled.

Those long looks, electric in the beginning, became exhausting as their world got darker. _Use your words_ , he'd have told his younger self. Fucking emotional toddlers, both. Embarrassing, the avoidance. It simply terrified them. He sees that now.

Lying here now, death at the door, he wonders:  _what the fuck?_   A few heartfelt words would be nice right about now. The stupid light looms ahead and there is so much left unspoken. He’d appreciate some trite, emoting clichés before meeting his maker.

* * *

Instead they had stared at each other, bantered, yelled on occasion, and fucked. That started early, earlier than anyone knew.

When did he know they'd probably fuck? Second conversation? Third? Without a doubt it was the day he met her. She told him once that she'd first considered it during his interrogation of Brody. She'd been floored by the hand stab. She always liked him at his most dangerous. Pretty twisted that she'd first contemplated fucking him while he was interrogating the guy she was actually fucking, but so very Carrie.

Here's when he knew:

"You were fucking him, huh?" All sass and insolence.

"Who are _you_ fucking?" she shot back, clearly pissed.

He had crawled under her skin with the challenge, and he knew it.

Turned out he was the only one who didn't treat her like she was made of glass or just plain fuckably nuts. Brody came close, but his own craziness made their mutual insanity as combustible as a gasoline-soaked dirty bomb. Saul was a Freudian mess of a father figure. Both men used her, or tried, with impunity. It was only Quinn who, somehow, had a preternatural comprehension of her complicated soul.

Honesty was the only thing he demanded of her. She squirmed and resisted and blinked – literally - under his stubborn insistence on truth. For a woman with complexity and denial programmed into her DNA, his straight-up honesty was threatening in every way, yet there was a kind of elegant simplicity to it. And challenge. Challenge trumped just about every other instinct in Carrie Mathison’s tangled personality, so she kept coming back to him.

As for the fucking, it was mostly hot — urgent and as muddled as they were.

Oh, and she was pregnant. A minor fucking detail she neglected to mention.

* * *

 

_The first time was on her sofa…._

On the street in the darkness, having confessed to two homicides he might as well have committed but didn't, she implores him to help her vindicate Brody.

"Sure, Carrie," he says, resigned. He wants to go home and be alone. It's what he does best.

She catches the flicker of hopelessness in his eyes and feels a flash of regret. _She always did that too. He grew to see her gift of perception as part of her condition. She could spot pain in a heartbeat. Bipolar spidey._

It was a video loop, this conversation. She asked, he resisted, she pressed, and he relented. There was a nice predictability to it, if nothing else. Each time he would see a hint of shame in her eyes. Carrie knew her needs shouldn't always trump his, but it never stopped her from trying.

"Have you eaten?" she asks.

"No," his eyes flickering away.

"Hungry?" tilting her head and smiling. She’s not letting him leave with all this moroseness.

"Uhhh... yeah," giving in because that's what he does with her and, anyway, he could eat a fucking horse.

"Follow me home. We'll order out."

Standing in her dimly-lit living room twenty minutes later, he takes in her crazed wall of Brody sightings, examining the detail this time, map tacks and yarn stringing together tabloid newspaper articles. Call her consistent, obsessive, always. Her voice drifts in as she orders dinner from the kitchen landline.

Minutes later she pauses at the doorway and watches his shadowed figure beholding the wall. _Jesus, look at him_ , she thinks. _Beautiful, all that controlled masculinity_. This obvious fact came over her occasionally, usually during their quiet moments. She gives him a beer, wine for herself in her other hand.

"Indian. That okay?" she inquires, employing forced cheer and a culinary memory in a futile effort to knock away his brooding.

"Sure, Carrie." Again.

 _Enough_ , she decides, and fires back, "oh, for God's sake, Quinn, it's not like I'm asking you to take a fucking bullet for me. You want to get the bomber as much as I do." 

He sighs. Never deny Charming Carrie. "Do I?" his eyes drift from the wall to hers. "You sure about that?"

"Don't you?" she asks, rearing back her head, all big-eyed earnestness.

He turns away and slumps down onto the sofa, defeated by it all. Kill orders to protect Estes' career. Innocent women fatally tethered to an Iranian psychopath. Saul, giving nostalgic, proverbial blowjobs to said psychopath. Hundreds of dead colleagues. Now, here is Carrie, asking him to help clear the record of her treasonous marine lover. Would it ever end?

"Carrie, the bomber is probably wandering the hills of Afghanistan by now. Why would you trust Javadi on this?”

He's got her there. Leaning back, stretching an arm over the back of the sofa he watches her silently ticking off options for another pitch. He bites back a cynical smile at her mental maneuverings. She was always such a gorgeous mess. Eventually she goes for patriotic, a worthy angle but, in this case, pretty weak. "We need to try to find him, Quinn. We need to try. America won't be safe until we do."

He stretches out his long legs, crossing them on the coffee table. _Let's just get to the point_ , he decides - the one she's avoiding. "You know, Carrie, it's not my life’s mission to exonerate your fucking terrorist boyfriend," tilting his head toward the Brody sightings.

"That's not the point."

"It _is_ the point. For you it is." She averts her eyes under his hard look, conceding defeat.

After a long moment, he sighs, “Carrie, just tell me your plan. I told you I’d help.”

Soon after that, the doorbell rings.

Three drinks later, full of Indian food and spy planning completed, they sit side-by-side on the sofa reclaiming their easy banter. Carrie leans forward, elbows on her knees and says, of all things: "So, how's the ER nurse?"

Surprised - she doesn't usually do "personal" with him - he decides to play along. "Moved on. The blonde in HR has captured my heart," he quips.

"No! The bottle blonde with the heels and−" gesturing to her bust in the universal sign of endowment.

"Like that."

"Classy."

"Class isn't exactly the objective."

"Yeah, well, you can do better. “

"You think?" His tone says _obviously_ but he doubles down just to have fun with her. "She's hot, Carrie. Need there be more?"

“I dunno," she considers, “I guess I just thought you'd have better taste." Amused that she's showing her cards - some kind of high regard for him - he smiles and, damn, doesn't he just light up the room when he stops his glowering act? "And, _yes_ , Quinn, there should be more. You're not twenty years old! How about going for someone who can speak one language to keep up with your six? Start there."

He actually chuckles. "Carrie, it's not like I'm in it for the fuckin’ intellectual rapport. Plus, she makes a mean chocolate chip cookie."

She rolls her eyes. "Quinn, try not to sound like a sexed-up Black Ops stereotype."

"I dunno, it hasn’t failed me yet," winking and popping a last piece of naan into his mouth. He leans in slightly, a warning in his almost-whispering voice. "Better a bottle blonde than a ginger jihadist in the fucking wind, Carrie."

Seconds pass as the room turns somber.

"I've just got to know, Quinn," she finally says, wistful.

"I know," moving his eyes back to the wall. Not for the first time, he feels a growing sense of dread over this obsession of hers. He tells her, gently, "Carrie, it's not going to end well. You know that, right?"

Her eyes well up with tears, a connection between them in the quiet.

He pushes the intimacy away and reaches for her hand lying on the sofa. He gives it a brief, reassuring squeeze and stands. "I gotta go.”

"Don't."

It was impulsive on her part, that part was obvious, but long overdue. Her fixation on Brody hardly entered her mind. Quinn occupied a radically different place in her psyche so it hardly seemed to matter. Quinn was a sanctuary from all the crazy that was Brody. For some reason, in Quinn’s presence, she felt grounded, even sane. Anyway, if she were honest, she absolutely longed for him in that moment with his dark looks and wit, and those endless goddamn stares.

She stands up and steps closer, eyes forward as her hands slowly rise to the buttons on his light blue shirt. He goes deathly still.

One button. Two. Three.

She finally finds the nerve to look up, eyes dancing. His expression is dark but amused, a little surprised but not all that surprised.

"Not a fucking good idea, Carrie," he says, deadly and soft, nervous arousal rising around them.

Always confident in her effect on men, and trying to deflect all the intensity that is Quinn, Carrie says coyly, "I speak three languages, Peter Quinn," pulling a full head tilt and a smile that screams sex. He last saw this expression on a monitor as she entered Brody's room at the Ashford. She's lighter this time but on a full throttle sex agenda just the same. _Fuck._

Honestly, it pisses him off. He won’t be played.

His hand goes to stop her fingers, half-heartedly. She ignores him, releasing another button anyway. Bending her head forward, she lightly kisses the exposed skin at his chest, feathery. This time when she looks up it's a challenge between friends, _I dare you_ in her eyes. Then, she actually fucking says it.

"Dare you, Quinn." Black Ops assassin and all, she had him with a dare, smile and head tilt. Fuck. _Just, fuck._

Suddenly, his left hand clamps down hard on her right, whipping it behind her back, forcing her up against him. Her eyes widen, their faces inches apart. “You may regret this, Carrie,” quiet and lethal.

“Not fucking likely,” flashing another sultry smile, eyes holding his, throwing the challenge right back.

Without warning, he backs her up against the wall, hard. Her head would have thumped had he not put his free hand into her hair en route. She gasps, shocked at his aggression, her small body crushed against the wall by his large one. Head ducking, his mouth travels slowly across her jaw and neck, controlled and coiled with a domination that is so surprising and animalistic, arousal whips through her body like electro-shock.

Nervously she manages, "Qui−"

"Shut the fuck up, Carrie," cutting her off.

He rids her of essential clothes and pushes her shirt aside as two fingers squeeze a nipple over her bra, just short of hurting her. She jerks in response as erotic fear grips her throat, pulse throbbing. It’s abundantly clear that whatever she believed this would be, he had a far different vision.

If she had expected him to soften, she was deadly wrong. He grabs both of her wrists into one hand, pinning them above her head. Inflamed with desire and alarm, Carrie cries, "Jesus, Quinn. What−?" and his free hand covers her mouth. She wouldn't shut up. Since when did she follow instructions?

"Carrie, I'm serious," exhaling, his fast breath the only indication of his own arousal. Turned on beyond belief, she struggles a little to release her wrists. Removing his hand from her mouth, his eyes narrow into hers, darting back and forth, he murmurs, “just say ‘stop’, Carrie,” knowing she won’t. She blinks, her breathing so short she genuinely feels like she might black out.

It occurs to her that this wasn't exactly how she pictured it, here, forced against a wall, hands clamped above her head, Quinn fully clothed and disciplined. Of all the men she's fucked, none had quite turned the tables on her so fiercely. With Quinn she'd expected to flirt her way into this and keep control. She usually read men so well.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she asks shakily.

He lowers his mouth, his lips hovering a hair’s distance above hers, their breaths mingling. Just when she expects contact, absolutely craves it, he pulls his head back slightly with a half-smile that never meets his eyes. “No.”

His open, hot mouth instead travels down her neck, teeth dragging across her throat. "You're kind of scaring me," she says, barely audible. His hand, cool against her heated skin, travels down the side of her breast, past her hips to between her legs.

"Deal with it." He fingers stroke the damp material of her underwear, pushing aside the material. She is shockingly wet. He lifts his head to look at her with a raised eyebrow. “Fucking hell, Carrie.”

Slick with desire, he easily slips one finger inside her. She goes weak with relief and makes a high-pitched, frenetic sound as one foot jerks up the wall to give him direct access.

His eyes continue to drill into hers with such piercing intensity they could have taken down a fucking Taliban village. Noting each invasion of her body, he slips in a second finger at the same time that his thumb finds her clit. She goes weak, dropping her head to his shoulder, her body fully supported by his, panting, “oh, my God.” Almost whimpering, her rapid breath the only sound in the thick quiet. Quinn silently mouths her neck, teeth scraping her flesh, thumb massaging expertly.

She was bestowed by nature with an ability to come in mere minutes, but this will be even faster as Quinn alternately circles and strokes, her head pressing into his shoulder. Unable to control the rising tremors spreading up through her body, she groans, “oh, my God, Quinn,” yet again, her fingernails digging into his hand above her head.

One last stroke and she is gone, pleasure seizing her body so sharply she lurches against him. It is fast and so intense an almost-scream shoots directly from where his hand controls her, through her throat and out her mouth, her head whipping back, neck arched. He waits her out as she contracts around his fingers.

Coming to, she feels a rising fury. He'd barely spoken or sighed or moaned or anything that any red-blooded man who’d finger-fucked his best friend (or whatever they were) would be expected to do. If it weren't for the rock-hard cock pressed against her she might have thought he was a fucking android. All her pretenses stripped, fingers still inside her, he finally looks at her, pupils dilated and almost feral. At least there was that.

"You're an asshole, Quinn," she chokes out when she regains her voice, pulling hard to free her arms.

Withdrawing his wet hand from between her legs, the other still gripping her wrists, he has the gumption to actually wink at her before lowering his forehead to hers. In an oddly tender tone he declares, "Carrie, I won't fall for your shit."

He finally releases her arms and steps back. She’s suddenly exposed, cold. Quinn keeps his eyes on hers instead of her ridiculous post-orgasm state and it feels vaguely chivalrous. One of her hands closes her open blouse and she crosses her arms protectively over her chest. "You should've warned me."

"About what?"

"Assassin hands. Fuck, Quinn."

He actually laughs, thank God, because she doesn't scare easily and he almost had her petrified with the hand fuck, no kissing, and robotic control.

A long moment passes as they look at each other, both a little baffled at what had just transpired.

Finally he says, "what are we doing here, Carrie? Because it's past my fuckin' bedtime."

Carrie, the woman who could usually read men like GPS, decides that this time, she won’t underestimate him. With newfound clarity, she steps forward, goes on tiptoe and kisses him just below his ear. When she tilts her head back to look at him, her eyes twinkling, she teases, "I don't know, Quinn, I'm nearly naked, turned on and yours for the night. What are _you_ doing?" This time her smile is needy and honest. No games.

His left hand - the clean one - goes to the side of her neck, his fingers lacing into her hair, thumb softly caressing her throat. "This will be a disaster," glancing away, faintly forlorn, then back to her, "and I'll be fucked."

 _They knew the dynamic, even then. He's somehow both harder and softer than she._ She reaches up and frames his face trying to wordlessly convey that she would never hurt him, but there is simply nothing to say. Her mind and heart are a clusterfuck of contradictions.

She lightly caresses his lips with her thumbs, surprisingly amorous. “I didn’t know,” she says, because it seems like the right thing to say.

One corner of his mouth curls up. “Yeah, you did, Carrie,” not allowing her to get away with anything, even this. Blue eyes meet grey and their look holds for long moments.

It’s all so intimate and sweet, a wave of tenderness surges through her for this complicated man who tries to hide so much. She kisses him, finally. It starts gently, almost chaste, an effort to impart all he means to her even though she’s never paused to figure it out herself. Then, as if making a decision, he moves his hand to the back of her head, tilting his and deepening the kiss, hot and hard, his tongue teasing and parting her lips, slowly invading. It goes on and on and, as first kisses go, it's the best she’d ever had.

Surprised and a little swept under, if she’s honest, a moan escapes her throat, hands suddenly desperate to get him as naked as herself. In seconds she has his shirt off and his pants down, a frustrated laugh escaping her lips at the almost teenage urgency.

He lowers her to the sofa, looking down at her for a long moment, his face so uncharacteristically open; he’s the polar opposite of the man crushing her to the wall minutes ago. Her heart skips a little, understanding instinctively her own power and the precise reason for his earlier demonstration of cold dominance.

His mouth ventures down her neck past her breasts, hot and soft this time. She suddenly has no patience with his careful oral foreplay, needing this to be only about fucking. She drags him up and says, "now." His eyes search hers because it seems too fast and she replies wordlessly her need for him.

He groans, as if remembering something, and puts his forehead to hers. “Carrie, I don’t have a fucking condom.”

“It’s fine, I’m covered.”

With that, he swiftly shifts and pins her hips under his, readying for direct entry, reminding her of his precision against the wall only this time he’s shockingly intimate. He watches her face as he thrusts fully into her. She gasps and he pauses for a heart-stopping moment before he groans, deep and heartfelt, ducking into her neck. Finally. This might be the most erotic thing Carrie has ever heard, Quinn unraveling. She arches, throbbing around his size and the sheer pleasure, breathing, "oh, dear _God_ ," which seems to have become her mantra with him.

His control quickly starts to crumble, voice breaking, "Christ, Carrie." His thrusts are intense, not gentle, as if trying to find something inside of her. She matches him, loving his sheer physicality, a glow coming over them, the air hot and charged. As Quinn wipes back the damp strands on her face, she arches and goes over the edge. It is far longer than the last one and it actually shocks her. Her legs grip around him, head tilting back as she cries out. He manages to pause as her muscles grip around him before giving five of the hardest thrusts of his sexual life, losing it and collapsing upon her.

She inhales sharply when he finally withdraws a minute later. He sits up to hand her some paper napkins from the coffee table and then lies back down, hauling a nearby blanket over them.

Eventually, she raises her head from his shoulder to look at him with a just-been-properly-fucked smile. He touches her cheek tenderly. “What the fuck, Carrie?”

“Hmmm,” dipping her head and kissing his temple where a bead of perspiration has gathered, "would have happened eventually, Quinn. Why put it off?" There’s nothing to say to that, really. She's right.

Minutes later, when he senses her drifting off, he kisses her head, extricates himself and looks around for his boxers. A faint panic had started to simmer in his stomach. He didn't expect her openness and it feels like the right time to deflect. "Dinner was great, Carrie,” he quips, pushing an arm into his shirt sleeve, “excellent dialing skills."

"Like you're a Michelin chef yourself, Quinn."

Smiling, he shoots back, "you have no idea what you're talking about." He has her there. She has no clue if he cooks.

While he finishes dressing, she sits up, wrapped in the cream-colored blanket, looking mussed, young and completely adorable. "You can stay, you know," she says softly.

He pauses, a foot hovering over a shoe and he shifts his gaze back to her. She's gone totally vulnerable. "It's not a good idea, Carrie." He says it tenderly this time, holding her look. He knows her so well. She nods and looks away. Loneliest girl on the planet.

She’s wedged herself open a tiny bit for him, Quinn realizes. They’re going to change, they have to, now - and this is how it starts.

"Fuck me." She always defeats him. Every single time. He gathers her up and stands, carries her to the bedroom and settles her into the sheets. He lies down next to her on top of the duvet.

"I'll stay until you sleep."

"Okay.”

Minutes later, “Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"You can do better than bottled blondes," a smile in her voice.

Fleetingly, he thinks about the dark hair that occasionally peeks out at the part at the top of her head.

"Go to sleep, Carrie."


	2. Ears & Tables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The argument we never got on HL when Carrie discovers Quinn was watching she and Brody at the cabin, followed by, well, you know.

_The second time was at Langley…_

Carrie and Quinn return to form the following Monday morning. The only indication that anything's changed is his amused eyebrow lift, followed immediately by her eye-avert, when she hands him a file.

They spend the day researching bombing suspects, devising a plan for Dar to rattle Bennett and, possibly, draw out the Langley bomber. Photos of dead CIA employees are grimly strewn over their desks. The day drags. Saul and Carrie argue. Another day at the CIA.   
  
Darkness falls and quiet descends on the vast building, leaving Carrie and Quinn in the large, shadowy room. She sits back and looks at him, the blue light of the laptop making his cheekbones appear even more angular than usual. Sensing her gaze, he looks up. A tiny current of electricity flickers across.  
  
"This is a waste of time," leaning back, cranky.  
  
"It's not."  
  
He rubs his forehead, sighing. "Have you thought this through, Carrie?"  
  
"Thought what through?"  
  
"All of it," he says, exasperated. "Say we actually find the bomber - and that's a fucking long shot - what then?"  
  
"We clear his name," meaning Brody. Quinn returns a hard stare and she looks away, a little embarrassed to be discussing Brody with the man with whom she'd had mad sex two nights before. She wonders idly if Quinn understands how utterly consumed she feels by Brody. Then she remembers that he watched her debacle of an interrogation of Roya. What doesn't he know about her?  
  
In any case, he's not letting up. "Seriously, Carrie, what then? You both go live happily ever after?" This isn't jealousy talking, exactly. It's mostly Quinn keeping her honest.  
  
"I don't know," looking away, uncomfortable.  
  
Annoyance creeps into his voice. "Carrie, he made a fucking suicide video. That's never going away. It will follow him wherever he goes," closing a file in front of him, “assuming he’s even alive.”  
  
"Quinn, he was brainwashed."   
  
"Maybe. Or maybe he's just a run-of-the-mill, class A psychopath."   
  
"He's not a psychopath."

"Yeah, well, he's a terrorist, that's for fucking sure and it's not like he was trying to deprogram while doing his morning prayers to Allah." That's out of his mouth so fast he can't figure out how to take it back. Fuck. He's not usually so clumsy.  
  
She doesn't seem to notice. Small, divine favors.  
  
She shakes her head. "He doesn't pray, Quinn. He just found comfort in religion after being tortured for six years. You would too." She's _that_ confident in Brody. Jesus.

Wordlessly, with only a look, he conveys his certainty that she's completely delusional.  
  
He stands abruptly. "I'm making coffee. Want some?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He crosses the large room and enters the narrow office kitchenette. Inserting a K-Cup into the Keurig, it occurs to him that he’s relieved to have skirted yet another Brody battle. The calming sound of trickling liquid fills the tiny room.

"How do you know he prays?" He starts as she appears out of nowhere at the doorway. _Fuck._

Did he really think she wouldn't figure it out?  
  
"I don't. I'm assuming," he lies, glancing at her while dumping the used K-Cup into the trash and inserting a new one, feigning casual.  
  
"No, Quinn, you weren't _assuming_." He offers her the filled mug. She ignores him, hands on hips, brain turning. Then, predictably, the explosion: _**"** You were there! At the cabin. You were surveilling us! **"**_  
  
He places the mug on the counter, turns and faces her. He holds her eyes but says nothing. She steps forward, almost nose-to-nose with him, or as close as she can get being half a head shorter. "Fucking _tell_ me, Quinn!"

He steps back. Even Quinn can’t take her rage at such close proximity. He sighs. He’s not getting out of it. "Estes's orders."

"And?"   
  
"And, what?"  
  
"Why? Tell me _why_! Why would Estes order surveillance on an asset who helped us get the biggest terrorist on the planet?"  
  
Okay, that was just stupid and she doesn't usually do stupid. He'll take that on. He straightens, towering over her. "Gee, I don't know, Carrie, maybe _because he went into a bunker with the Vice President, wearing a fucking bomb!_ It's not like he was working for us because he was a goddamn patriot. He was facing the death penalty!"

She glares at him for a long moment and then looks away, wheels turning, then back to him, suddenly calm. Scary calm. "You didn't answer the question, Quinn," her eyes narrowing. "If Estes just wanted to track him he could have sent anyone. Why send a Black Ops assassin?"  
  
His eyes don't leave hers, but he backs his head and his eyes dart ever so slightly. He's fucked. "You were sent to kill him! _You were fucking sent to kill him!_ " Her hand rakes through her hair as she paces in the tiny confines before rearing back at him. "Start talking right now, Quinn!"   
  
After a long moment, he finally says, "It was the madrassa bombing, Carrie. It would have ended Estes’s career if it got out."  
  
She ponders, briefly. "But you didn't do it," her forehead scrunching in confusion.  
  
"No."  
  
"Why?"

What to say to that? Whatever sticks. He takes a sip of coffee. "Because I don't assassinate people to advance the careers for venial shitheads like Estes, God rest his sorry soul,” setting down his mug and glancing back to her, “that's why."  
  
Her eyebrows go up, expecting more.

He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. "And it would have wrecked you."

That shuts her up. It’s the real reason. Her eyes drill into his and it's all suddenly too much. She breaks their look, walks out of the kitchenette and starts pacing properly in the larger room. He sighs, a hand rubbing the back of his stiff neck, realizing it’s only going to get worse.

He moves to the doorway, leaning his shoulder on the jamb, coffee mug in hand, watching the Carrie Show.  
  
It takes a while. Finally: "Wait, wait, wait. You heard and saw everything?" Then, with more certainty, nodding to herself, she looks at him, accusing: "You heard and saw everything!"  
  
He shakes his head, "no ears."  
  
"But you _saw_ everything?"   
  
"Most."  
  
"Oh my God." She finds a chair and sits down with a thud. It'd almost be cute if she weren't so angry.

"Carrie, I wouldn't worry about it. My entire goddamn team heard you and Brody fucking at the motel. That was a career highlight."  
  
**_"_** _Fuck you, Quinn!_ **”**  
  
He has the audacity to smile. "Carrie, relax. I do this for a living. I've seen plenty of people fucking through a sniper scope."  
  
Her head drops to her hands, groaning. "Whatever, Quinn. It's such an invasion of my privacy."  
  
He laughs outright. "Coming from you, that's rich as hell," moving forward and crouching in front of her. His eyes catch hers and he says gently, "you're fucking CIA, Carrie. You know this game."   
  
"I'm going to be sick."   
  
"No, you're not."  
  
"Tell me you didn't get turned on."  
  
"Okay, Carrie, 'tell me you didn't get turned on.'" Repeating her words, eyes laughing at her.

She’s sort of crying now as the humiliation of his revelations sink in. “Fuck you, Quinn.”  
  
"You said that." He reaches up to her cheek and wipes away a frustrated tear. He needs out of this conversation. All this passionate arguing has given him a rock solid hard on. He raises both hands to her blouse and starts to unbutton it.

"You're kidding."  
  
Eyes down as he does his work, smiling slightly, he glances up at her. "Nope."  
  
She doesn't stop him.  
  
Job completed, blouse unbuttoned, he notes the quick rise and fall of her chest — from anger or arousal, he can't be sure. The room suddenly seems to contract around them.

He takes two fingers and slowly traces them down her throat, across her clavicle, to between her breasts and stops at the hook in front, deliberate and studied.  Leaning forward he kisses her between her breasts, echoing her kisses to his chest two nights before. She inhales sharply. "Quinn, this is so fucked up."

"Definitely," unhooking her bra and watching as the cups separate. In one swift motion he covers both sides of her breasts with his hands, thumbs on her nipples. She gasps at the intimacy. He leans forward, putting his mouth to her ear and whispers, "you were fucking beautiful."

She can't quite believe he would reference the cabin. Horrified at all he saw, pissed he'd bring it up, and totally turned on, she tilts back to look at him. "That was not okay, Quinn."

Sighing, his hands move to her underarms, picking her up like a child and unceremoniously plopping her on the conference table behind them. It’s a fantasy he’s probably had a hundred times and he’s not letting her out of it. "Look at it this way, Carrie, if I hadn't seen you… like that, I’d have probably taken out his sorry ass."  
  
He looks at her then. Both of them are breathing fast. She shakes her head. It's all so crazy but somehow it adds to the thick air of mutual want. _Fuck it_ , she thinks. Her hands move to his pants, she unbuttons, unzips and shoves them down along with his boxers.

He gets her pants off, blouse open as his head ducks to her throat. Impatiently, she shifts her hips forward. "Now," she says.  
  
"Carrie-" all of his training in the sexual arts is telling him this is way too fast. But, then again, this is Carrie. Apparently foreplay is not her thing, with him anyway.  
  
" _Now_ _!"_   She’s still angry.

He moves closer, shirt unbuttoned and his cock poised for entry, but he stops. She’s leaning back slightly, arms around his neck, breathing labored.

“What do you want, Carrie?” he asks, challenging, and looking straight into her.

She rolls her eyes, it’s so cliché. She puts both of her hands on either side of his face burying her fingers in his hair. “You.”

He tilts his head to the side. “Sorry, I didn’t get that. Who?” They’re eye-to-eye now and she’s starting to tremble. “Say it, Carrie.”

Exhaling with hot frustration, she digs her nails into his scalp with a force she hopes hurts a little, or even a lot. “Fuck me, Quinn.”

“Now, Carrie, is that any way to ask?” He brings a hand down between them to where he is about to plunge inside of her, grazing her clit. She jumps.

A sheen of angry, aroused sweat is starting to coat her skin. She groans in exasperation and brings his face even closer. They’re coasting a kind of charged eroticism mixed with anger and humor and she can barely keep it together. She looks him in the eye, breathing hard and says wobbly, “you really are an asshole.” In response, he grazes her clit again, barely touching, a tease. She moans as her head falls to his shoulder. Another. “Jesus fucking Christ, Quinn.”

“I’m waiting.”

She raises her head, glaring, and so enraged it would have been frightening if the situation weren't so ridiculous. She conjures up a little girl voice full of sarcastic exaggeration: “ _Pl_ _ease, please, please fuck me, Peter Quinn_.”

He actually laughs out loud. “With pleasure." He shifts her hips forward, forcing her back, and plunges into her, almost too hard. She gasps sharply.

He almost comes immediately and stops completely to regain control. Leave it to Carrie; she’s having none of it. Arms around his neck, legs like a steel trap around his waist, she grinds out, "don't you dare stop now, Quinn, I swear to God."  
  
He smiles through a ragged breath, thanking God she’s so close, and resumes thrusting into her with brute force while his hand remains between them, stroking her center. She starts to go over the edge in seconds and somehow he’s aware that she is about to scream, covers her mouth. She arches, lurching, and her contractions alone almost send him off. He waits her out, the half-life of her orgasm lasting for what seems like forever. He finishes with several more strokes so strong she feels like he may literally nail her to the table. When he comes, the intensity blows his mind, making him moan and unable to breathe for longer than may be medically safe. He collapses, spent, his warmth spreading inside her.

It was too intense. They both know it. 

Their slowing breathing is the only sound in the room for long moments. "This is when one of says something funny, Quinn," she says, finally.

Still inside her, his head spinning as it rests on her neck, he lamely replies, "I've got nothin’."  
  
He's kind of crushing her on the table and eventually rises onto his elbows and looks down at her.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Would you feel badly if I said yes?”

It’s almost rhetorical, and pointless to answer. He’s kind of exhausted of their banter, anyway, so he opts for looking down at her in a dark, confused way.

Refusing to let him revert to brooding, she reaches out and touches his lips with a look of such trust it almost breaks him. "Thank you," and kisses him for the first time that night, soft and sweet.

She always surprises him.

He could have asked, _f_ _or what?_ but doesn't. For the friendship? For the good fuck? For not killing Brody? He doesn't want to know.  
  
He finally pulls out, opting for perfunctory. "Get dressed, Carrie. It's late and I've got a date," stepping into his boxers and pants.  
  
"You're kidding," she says for the second time. She sits up at the edge of the table, a disheveled, almost obscene mess. He finds a tissue box on a nearby desk and hands it over along with her clothes.

"Nope." He wasn't, actually.  
  
Silently they finish dressing and close up their laptops. He walks her out to the parking lot.   
  
Pausing awkwardly next to her car, she finally says, "well, have fun," in a way that means exactly the opposite.

He says nothing.

Then, she goes and does it again, stepping forward, up on tiptoes and kisses his cheek. He shakes his head. "You’re a fucking mystery, Carrie Mathison."  
  
Opening her door, she climbs in and looks up, "Be good, Peter Quinn."

He watches her drive off as he shakes his head.

 _Fuck_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 3 is funnier and sweeter. It's intended to be, anyway...you can be the judge!


	3. Buffy & Batman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The non-date date. Until clarified in S6-7 I'm not giving up on Quinn's original back story, or a version of it, anyway. I just don't believe he'd invent something that could so easily be fact checked. And we all know Carrie would...
> 
> (For those of you who have not watched Buffy, Angel was her love interest.)

_The third time was in her bed…_

On Sunday, Carrie sits at her dining table staring at her laptop. The waning light of the day casts long, solitary shadows across the room, making her online investigation feel ever more pointless. Her phone buzzes and Quinn’s name pops up on the screen.

"Hey."

“What are you doing?”

“Going through morgue photos of unclaimed bodies in South America. Happy shit.”

"You hungry?"

She hadn't thought about it but she is. She’d skipped lunch. "Yeah."

"Pick you up in half an hour," and after a few seconds, "okay?"

This is not what they normally do. "Tell me this isn't a date, Quinn."

"Call it whatever you want, Carrie. I'm just hungry as fuck."

She can deal with that.

She dresses for a date, anyway. _Why the hell not?_ she thinks. She's already in it with him. She throws on a sleeveless black blouse with a low v neckline and a matching skirt. In the bathroom, she brushes her hair and teeth and, after a long moment looking at her reflection, reaches for a tube of red lipstick. Go hard or go home.

When he pulls up and walks to her entry, she comes out before he can fetch her, unsuccessfully attempting to deflect the date feel. He gives a cursory glance at her outfit and pulls a knowing look.

“Don’t say a fucking word, Quinn.” Blessedly, he obeys, but moves to open the passenger door.

"No."

He chuckles, "Whatever you say, Carrie," as she opens it herself, with force.

He chooses a Greek place, of course. Half-lit in the glow of the candles, wearing his navy button down, she finds it difficult to focus. _Was he always this heart-stoppingly gorgeous?_

Over the rim her wine glass, she finally says: "So, tell me about yourself, Peter Quinn."

"You already know me, Carrie," a corner of his mouth curling up while he munches on a piece of pita.

She replies with a ' _that's bullshit and you know it_ ’ expression and says, "twenty questions."

"No one is that interesting," he replies, leaning back, wine glass in hand.

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Five."

"Ten."

Exasperated but amused, he gives in. "Fine, ten,” popping an olive into his mouth, “take your best shot, Mathison," awaiting her interrogation.

"Tell me about your dad."

"Gone before I was five," he answers, matter-of-fact.

"What’d he do?"

"Navy Seal. Nothing after discharging, besides drinking, as far as I know."

 _Interesting_. "Your mother's name?"

"Christina."

"Alive?"

"No." Carrie visibly softens with sympathy, perceiving his long-ago pain.

"What was she like?"

He considers making something up but why bother? "Messed up."

"How ‘messed up’?" pausing, wine glass at mid sip.

"Off-her-meds-all-the-time messed up."

 _Fuck_ , her eyebrows going up in surprise. She’s not his first trip to the crazy rodeo, thinking back to his visit to see her in the psych ward, and the hearing, weeks ago.

Before she goes all Freud on him he says, "relax, Carrie, you’re totally different. She had a constant death wish and it was granted. Eventually. Are we done?"

"No." She takes a large gulp of her wine, digesting this. "So, no Main Line, then?"

"No. Three more. Make 'em good."

"The Hill School and Harvard checked out. Yearbook photos and all."

"Is that a question?"

"Yes."

"Training. They wanted a blue blood for covert operations. I was sponsored. I lived in a home Dar set up."

"Jesus, Quinn," she exhales in quiet shock. They had him so young.

"Don't worry about it, Carrie. It was a hell of a lot better than the alternative. We done?"

She ignores him, but changes course anyway. She’s not sure she can handle any more tragedy. "What’d you want be when you grew up?"

"A priest," he says and she coughs out a surprised laugh, "and then Superman. You?"

"Wonder Woman first, then Buffy."

He nods. "Perfect," filling her wine glass.

“You know, Quinn, you’re a lot more Batman than Superman.” He looks at her with another half-smile. "Seriously."

He raises one eyebrow, noting some actual personal insight from her. “Yeah, well, I was young and still believed in happy endings.”

"Just so we're clear, I still believe in happy endings, Bruce."

He ignores that and shifts to charm. “Except, here's the thing, Robin would never be able to carry off that top, Carrie,” eyeing her cleavage for long seconds, deliberately sexual, before shifting his laughing eyes back to her face. She flushes. After a long, seductive look that's almost embarrassing, he straightens in his chair. “Come to think of it, you’ve got some Lois Lane going on.”

She laughs at that. “Last I checked I’m not the supporting cast, Quinn.”

He smiles a little cynically. “No argument there. That would require that you give support,” he says it lightly though, flirtatiously, to lessen the blow.

Affronted anyway, she replies, “I can be supportive!” He chuckles at her indignation. She looks away, then, considering her next angle. “You know, while we’re making pop culture comparisons, Angel could give you a run for your money in the tormented, hot hero department.”

“Let the record show, the lady said ‘hot’. Careful, Carrie, that could be mistaken for a fuckin’ compliment.”

Her jaw drops briefly but she recovers quickly. “Careful, Quinn, you might be mistaken for a fuckin' assassin searching for one.”

He leans back again, eyes dancing. “Hey, didn’t they give Angel his own show?”

She rolls her eyes. “Where were we?” then, mockingly, “ah, _yes_ , your happy personal history,” reaching for a piece of pita and dipping it into the olive oil. “Was your son an accident?"

His eyes flicker away in the half-light and she immediately regrets having asked. “Way to fuck up a mood, Mathison.”

Her eyebrows raise, staying with the question.

"Yeah."

"Did you marry her?"

"Offered to. She declined. That’s eleven, Carrie."

“One more.” He sighs, holding his glass up, tilting it toward her in acquiescence.

She ponders, a finger circling the rim of her water glass. "Ever been in love, Quinn?"

He looks at her a little too long, then past her. "Not that I recall."

The waiter arrives, setting down lamb chops for Quinn and chicken souvlaki for Carrie.

He picks up his fork. "My turn."

"You know everything about me!"

He ignores that, reflecting for a few seconds on his strategy. “Biggest regret?”

“Professional or personal?

“You distinguish?”

Her shoulders slump a little and she gives him an exaggerated, annoyed look. He’s fucking impossible. “Estes,” offering up reciprocal honesty.

“Ah,” he knows. Everyone does. “Why?”

“Because I broke up his family. I never wanted that… didn’t see it coming.” He shoots her a pointed look and she knows he’s thinking about Brody. She looks down and examines the edge of the table. “That’s different. She’s in love with someone else,” meaning Jessica. He nods, a little doubtful but understanding, somehow. “Next question?” she asks, desperate to get off this topic.

“A secret you’ve never told anyone.”

“Hmmm, let’s see,” pondering while taking a bite of roasted potato. “I had a crush on my sixth grade history teacher, Mrs. Winters.”

Liking this direction, he leans in for privacy, "Favorite sexual position?" all charm and smirk.

She chokes a little on her chicken but decides to rise to the challenge, pulling a sex kitten expression. "Love them _all_." He gifts her with an honest-to-God laugh. She’s never seen him so relaxed. "Yours?" she asks.

"I answered my questions."

"Coward."

"On a conference room table. Hard." Her face warms and she knows she's blushing.

“Craziest place you’ve had sex?”

"I take the fifth."

"Not an option."

“Fuck, fine. In a tank in Baghdad.” He inhales sharply, genuinely surprised. “You asked!” then, after a few seconds, “I’m waiting.”

“In a confessional after mass,” he says and, at her alarmed look, “with a _girl_!”

“Hottest sex you’ve ever had?”

“Quinn! Can we go back to easy shit like your exploited childhood?” Her rising discomfort with this entire line of questioning is mixing with a throb between her legs. She gulps down a quarter of her wine.

He smiles. “Coward,” echoing her earlier words while filling her wine glass again.

She rolls her eyes. “Really?” To his ‘you’re not getting out of it’ nod and sexy stare, she finally says, “It’s a tie.”

“I’m waiting,” and he says it just like he did on the conference table days ago. She drops her fork with a _clank_ , finding this ridiculously fun, arousing and mortifying all at once. He sits back, beholding her squirm.

“Fine.” She pauses, horrified at what’s about to roll off her tongue. “With a Congressman in the coat room at the White House,” authentically shocking him again. She suddenly feels the need to explain. “I was young - a new analyst -” shifting in her chair, “and I was off my meds.” He chuckles, fond, not judgmental, but she feels exposed anyway. “We must be done.”

“Not even close. Three questions left. And the second?”

 _How the fuck is he keeping track?_ she wonders and leans forward, easing into a relaxed, sex-smile, “this _hot_  Black Ops assassin I picked up. Against a wall. Scary as fuck. I almost blacked out.

He keeps her gaze for a long, scorching moment and wonders idly if he could put her over his shoulder and fuck her in the car before desert. He breaks their look, straightens and clears his throat. She grins, winning that round, somehow.

"How old when you first got laid?"

“We must be done, Quinn,” she repeats. He just raises his eyebrows. "Fine, fuck! Fifteen. Justin Becker,” smiling at the memory. “You?"

"Sixteen."

“Lemme guess, she was older?” Spidey Carrie.

"Much," swallowing down a piece of lamb. "What color was Dylan's hair?"

Knowing his intense ginger aversion, she tilts her head. “Guess.”

"Brown."

“Yep.”

"Excellent."

"But his hair laid flat and he didn't use fuckin' gel."

He laughs, yet again, and she marvels at the sound, amazed that she hadn’t heard it much before. He sits back, thinking about a final question. “Ever want to get out, Carrie?"

"Every day."

Later, they venture into the parking lot in silence. It's a little overwhelming for both of them, this strange night of openness and laughter. They climb in - he lets her open her own door. Once inside the car he looks forward, not moving.

"Quinn?"

He turns, then, cupping her face and kissing her with such abandon it feels to her like a branding. His tongue slowly and deliberately invades her lips, possessing. When she eventually moans against his mouth, he breaks it and looks at her, both of them flushed and breathless. Looking hilariously self-satisfied, he shifts forward and turns the key. Neither say a word on the ride back to her place.

When they pull up to her condo he turns off the ignition and faces her.

She goes first. "Great non-date, Quinn. I assume you’re coming in?"

"One condition."

"Shoot."

"I'm opening your door."

“Deal."

He gets out, rounds the car, and opens it.

_Both of them had somehow made peace with what they were doing. The wine, flirtation and friendship offered a happy relaxation they had never before known together, or with anyone else, in fact. It was all so innocent, absurd considering their sexy talk, but for a moment they found each other and it felt pure and exactly right._

She leads him upstairs into her dark bedroom, a soft glow from the streetlights shining through the slats in the shades. He moves a hand into her hair and gently kisses her temple, so normal and downright sweet, they both search for humor to break the dreamy atmosphere.

“Nice outfit, Carrie. Shame to take it off.” He slowly lifts the blouse over her head revealing a black lace bra. His breath catches and her body warms under his gaze. Then, because he can’t help himself, “you really are incredibly beautiful, Carrie.” She always suspected there was a romantic deep inside his troubled soul and it makes her uneasy. She’s not ready for this from him.

Instead she pulls a sultry smile, removing his jacket, her fingers going to the buttons on the killer navy shirt, head tilting. “You know what’s annoying, Quinn?”

“What’s that?”

“You’re more beautiful. I’ve never slept with someone prettier than me. Pisses me off.” That earns her a laugh, all lit-up Christmas tree.

They disrobe each other slowly. For the first time they take the time to notice the other's body, hands mapping every curve, tongues swirling around scars and nipples, teeth nibbling and teasing. The sex is easy and hot, urgency replaced by deep, intense want. He lets her be on top and is breathless watching her, riding him, head tipped back, neck bared. Then, almost at the brink, she bends down and kisses him openly, with passion and fervor and reverence. They go over the edge together.

It is not like either of them would call it making love because they were supposed to just be fucking, but that’s exactly what it was.

Minutes later she lifts her head from his shoulder, gazing down at him for a long moment, warmth in her eyes.

“I’m speechless,” she whispers as a hand travels to the hair on his forehead, loving its confused incarnations.

“Apparently not.”

Shaking her head, smile widening, “will you _stop_ , Quinn?”

“What?” one finger traveling over the base of her neck.

“I dunno. Challenging.”

“Definitely not.”

“Why?”

He flips her onto her back and goes for her neck, vampire-like, with a snarl, to her laughter. Raising his head and sobering, he smiles down at her. “Look how far it’s gotten me.”

She reaches up then and touches his lips, her face turning thoughtful and a little fragile. “Stay?”

“Yeah.”

He leaves quietly after sleepy slow sex, from behind, at dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue is really challenging for these two, let alone dialogue with happiness. Please let me know if it sounds like their voices or if I've jumped the shark with all this cuteness and meta.
> 
> Next comes that tiny little issue of her pregnancy. It's an epic confrontation and the editing required is huge. I'll do my best to get it up in the next few days.


	4. Doorbells & Drama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn learns of her pregnancy...  
> So, I'm sticking with canon. Or trying to.  
> The interactions in the ops room when they're getting Brody into Iran need to be re-imagined with a little more antipathy from Quinn in this little universe.

As if they weren't already channeling crazy, he shoots her. Even better, because the gods have a bitch of a sense of humor, she turns up pregnant. Fucking _pregnant_.

The night he shot her and looked at her medical records will live forever in Annals of Carrie Infamy. He could write a fucking book. Grasping for something, anything, to make sense of it, he briefly convinces himself she must not have known. Wouldn't it be just like Carrie to be almost four months pregnant and not have a clue?

He doesn’t go to the hospital to see her. The idea of discussing the goddamn _baby_ by the ginger jihadist with the woman he’d been fucking was more than any man could possibly process.

Then, in the elevator, it became abundantly fucking clear that she knew she’d been pregnant the entire time. Worse, there wasn't an inkling of regret in her eyes, let alone her words. She’d been caught and she knew it. The shock that registered on his face as he reared his head would haunt her later but at that moment she only wanted to get into the ops room and carry on. She absolutely perfected the art of denial.

The fact that Quinn had to spend the following hours helping to dispatch the father of said baby safely into Iran made for a particularly hellacious joke.

Carrie called him before departing for Iran but he ignored it. Days later, Quinn’s final straw occurred when he asked Saul, in front of the team, how Carrie was going to be safely extracted. Saul’s predictable dismissive indifference flicked a switch. To off. He called Dar and signed up for a ten week mission to Syria, departing a week later.

He was absolutely, irrevocably done. This doomed fairy tale starring the bipolar heroine, her terrorist lover, and her CIA daddy who was more than happy to feed her to armies of radical Islamic extremists, would be navigated without his help. Fucking made for each other, all three of them.

The fact that Brody was executed days later wasn’t lost on him, but he barely considered it. The notion that she might expect a shoulder to cry on when she returned - he wouldn’t put it past her - made him apoplectic. He wanted to forget the whole goddamn chapter and get back to the desert and all of its distraction.

On departure day his doorbell rings. Stepping out of the shower he wraps a towel around his waist and walks to the door. He opens it to a starting-to-show Carrie. His ice cold eyes flicker over her before landing on her face.

Arm on the jam, disdain coating each word, he forces out, "Sorry, don't want anything."

"I'm not selling anything."

"You sure about that, Carrie?"

That pisses her off. She ducks under his arm and barges past him into his living room. Looking around the sparse apartment, she tries to pivot from what was starting feel like a confrontation for the ages. "Nice digs, Quinn. Maybe you should upgrade to a fucking flop house."

"Get the fuck out, Carrie."

"You were going to ship out without saying goodbye?" her eyes flickering over his chest, suddenly realizing he is half naked.

"What do you think?"

"Listen, Quinn−" She steps forward readying herself to appeal to what she knew was a human being - somewhere in Quinn - when she notes the fury on his face, changes her mind, and goes for banal. "When do you take off?"

"Two hours. Leave. Now, Carrie."

"No." She hesitates, starting to comprehend the full force of his anger and it renders her speechless for a second. Finally she blurts out, “Brody’s dead,” for some unknown reason.

“I heard. So sorry for your fucking loss,” shooting back fierce sarcasm. The sharp silence that follows is intolerable.

He turns abruptly and heads to the bedroom. She follows, all Determined Carrie, deliberately not getting the message.

"Jesus Christ," he exhales, entering his bedroom.

From the doorway she tries again, "Quinn−" he drops the towel, ignoring her as he pulls on boxers. His nakedness shuts her up for a second but she plows on.

"I know it's fucked up. Can you please just stop and _listen_?" Being ignored was never her strong suit. He continues as if she's not there, pulling on black jeans and a t-shirt. Opening a dresser drawer, he removes two automatics from a lock box, loading one with an ammunition cartridge, hooking it behind his back and throwing the other into the canvas bag on his bed. Finally he looks at her, his blue eyes a deep glacial freeze.

"Carrie, if you don't exit my fucking bedroom right now, I will not be responsible for my actions."

She has the decency to look apprehensive, even a little frightened. It's not lost on her, his scary Black Ops act that he wears like a second skin. It's suddenly too charged. She has the feeling that if circumstances had been different he would fuck her brains out against the wall right there. Or shoot her. Instead, she turns and walks back to the living room.

He finishes packing, dons a leather jacket and picks up his bag. He reenters the living room seconds later, a caged animal on the brink of rabid, dropping his bag with a _plunk_.

Tired by this dance but knowing she won't give up without something from him, he says, tersely, "Carrie, I've gotta go. I'll be back in a couple months. We'll talk then."

She nods, undone, those goddamn beautiful eyes of hers filling with tears. She takes two steps closer trying to find the man who loves her - a fact on which she's pretty confident - suddenly terrified in the face of his rage that she's fucked up everything.

He's having none of it. He takes a step back. Then, in a lethal tone, barely audible and full of more animosity than shouting could ever convey, " _Don't fucking pull that victim shit, Carrie. What could you have possibly been thinking?_ " each word cutting into her like the edge of a knife.

The elephant exits the room.

She holds his look, brain racing. Whatever she had originally planned to say had died minutes ago in the face of his hurt and fury. She knew he’d be mad but she didn't expected this. She finally settles on the pathetic truth of the thing. "Honestly, I didn't think about it, Quinn.”

“That’s _horseshit_ , Carrie!" with hushed vehemence, “You knew _exactly_ what you were doing. You told me not to use a fucking condom.”

Carrie, being Carrie, sparks at that, defensiveness surging through her. She wasn’t going to completely fall on the sword. “C'mon, Quinn, no one fucking forced you into it! Are you seriously telling me it would have made a difference?”

Suddenly he lunges forward in blind fury and for a second she’s sure he’s going to either hit or strangle her. His hand freezes short millimeters from her neck, his face contorted, hovering over hers. Abruptly, he steps back, his hand shaking slightly, going to his forehead and wiping down his face as he tries to gain control. Finally he says, “I’m not dignifying that with fucking anything. _Get the fuck out, now_.”

Her shoulders slump, her eyes huge, as she starts to understand how intensely personal this is for him. Even more strange - ironic in the extreme - his reaction is causing a growing realization of the profundity of her pregnancy itself. Most days she still barely thought about it and she certainly never expected this kind of reaction from Quinn. “Quinn, I don’t know how to explain….I ignored it. Maybe I still do. I don’t know. _Fuck_ ,” coughing back a self-disgusted laugh.

He stares her down for what seems like an eternity.

Unfuckingbelievable.

" _Really, Carrie? That’s all you’ve got_?" He’s shouting now in complete incredulity. It's kind of a relief because his quiet ferocity had been genuinely scary.

" _Really!_ I ignore it. It's fucked up, Quinn, I know, but I keep thinking it will just - I don't know. Just−” she looks away, pushing a hand through her hair, “resolve itself."

Flabbergasted, he beholds her sheer, impossible Carrie'ness,

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Hands on his hips, he looks briefly up at the ceiling as if actually calling for divine help, then back at her, still yelling, "You fucked me, Carrie! Went out of your goddamn way to fuck me - let's be honest - while you were pregnant with another man's kid! _Do you have the slightest fucking idea what that feels like?_ "

It's clear to him as he watches her childlike desperation to rationalize, that she doesn't. She has no clue. She didn't even consider it. And, fuck, what was he supposed to do with that?

She senses him easing, just slightly. Not for nothing, the depth of his pain wasn't lost on her. Brody was dead, she was pregnant with his kid - a fact she still couldn't process - and before her was the closest friend she's ever had, betrayed and leaving her.

"I'm sorry, Quinn," she whispers. He says nothing. She owes him far more than that and they both know it. "I don't know, with you, in the moment, it just seemed−“ she falters, chocking back tears, “right."

He considers doubling down with accusations of sex addition, sluttiness or, hell, just being a first class duplicitous cunt, but he just did not have it in him. Nor did he believe it. He just needs out. "Carrie, I've gotta go." She nods tearfully and follows him out of his apartment to his pick up.

In the parking lot he pauses, looking her up and down. "Take care of yourself, Carrie," reverting to cold and impersonal.

She’s beginning to get a little frenetic because this is feeling pretty damn final and she needs to access him in some way. "Quinn, don't fucking die there. Promise?"

She can tell he's still epically pissed but, damn, if the male ego doesn’t have its moments. "Careful, Carrie, I might start thinking you give a fuck." It’s the kind of thing people say when they want more.

She looks away to where the bleak sun is setting, then back at him, her eyes shining. "You know I do...Quinn, I don’t know what to say.“ She’s floundering, desperate to pull this together. She shoves a hand through her hair again. “You're my best friend, Quinn," keenly aware how fucking inadequate that was.

"And fuck buddy."

"Best fuck buddy, _ever_ ," she chokes out with a tragic laugh through the tears that are fully coming now. He looks at her grimly, refusing to give her a thing. "Quinn, I don’t−“ still searching for words. She stops and tries to compose herself, standing up straight, wiping away her tears and taking a deep breath. She finally meets his eyes, surrendering to the simple truth. “I just need you. So fucking much."

The words grab him a tiny bit. It's an obvious statement but daring from her in this moment, in this way. Maybe, just maybe, considering how much she threw around the word 'love' with Brody The Terrorist, this may actually mean something.

He relents a little because, well fuck, that's what he always does with her. He quickly tangles his hand in her hair and kisses the top of her head. "Bye, Carrie. I'll see you soon." Why, fucking why, does he always let her do this to him?

She nods into his chest, fully crying. It’s so clear to her how she fucks up everything. "You better come back, Quinn," she manages through a sob.

Climbing into his truck, he shakes his head at the stratospheric fuck up that is Carrie Mathison.

She stands for a long moment watching his truck disappear.

Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carrie is so deliciously flawed...but I'll admit my inner feminist always cringes a bit at the constant dynamic of Carrie as obtuse and insensitive vs Quinn as tortured and selfless. (Some of the later chapters will take this on.)
> 
> He returns for the last five weeks of her pregnancy. Lots of banter to come...and a some smut, despite the pregnancy (it won't be gross - promise!).


	5. Pumps & Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is SO fluffy, I almost didn't include it, but here's the thing: If we've seen Quinn, tie tucked into his shirt, doing dishes with Maggie, we can bloody well see him crib shopping, I say! And, for those of you who just read Ch. 5 of Ignition, some wholesomeness to go along with the XXX may be called for. ;-) 
> 
> The only change to canon: instead of, "You have one, right?" regarding John Jr., imagine, Carrie saying, "You mean your son?" because they've already discussed him.

When he returns from Syria he doesn’t call. She hears that he’s back, second hand. She texts. He answers with one word responses. He ignores her calls.

Finally, he agrees to see her outside of Langley after her meeting with Lockhart. Smoking a cigarette, leaning against a car, he's coolly professional, cordial. Hopeful that she can hook him into their normal rapport, she over-shares. This moves him little, his eyes distant, elsewhere. It’s as if whatever intimacy they once shared – emotional or physical – was dead to him.

As the conversation ends and he walks past her into Langley, she has a moment of pure petulance, simply hating when he's mad at her. She somehow expected his anger would subside after they said good-bye, convinced that when he returned they would be able to rediscover or reinvent their friendship, pregnancy and all.

Days later he grudgingly agrees to accompany her to the bombing memorial, his demeanor only slightly warmer. Sensing the possibility of an opening and always one to leap on an opportunity, the following Sunday she calls him, thrilled when he actually picks up.

"Carrie, you okay?"

"Yeah," impatient, detesting all the stupid baby-worry, "uhh….are you busy?"

"What do you want?" He’s harsher now.

"I need your help.” After a long silence she clears her throat. “I've gotta buy a crib…and Maggie's out of town." More silence. "Quinn, are you there?"

After an eternity, a seriously long eternity, "You want me to fucking go _crib shopping_ with you?" He’s incredulous, utterly.

"Would you? Quinn, please, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Fuck, Carrie!" then, after another long pause, “What are we, girlfriends?" She laughs, hard, so relieved to get a joke out of him she actually tears up.

“You’ve done it before, right?”

After another long, long pause. “Yeah.”

"There are too many choices on Amazon."

"You can't order it online, Carrie. You'd have to assemble it."

"Quinn, I can't do this on my own. I'll fuck it up."

Fuck. _Fuck._ "Otis and Holmead in an hour. You fucking owe me, Carrie." The line goes dead.

* * *

 

He finds her in the crib section looking like a bird in an Arctic oil spill. He casually saunters in wearing a grey t-shirt and black jeans. She smiles with relief when she sees him, visibly relaxing. It secretly melts him, but he is all business.

"Hey."

"Hey." Looking around, she's totally lost. Her arm sweeps over the many options. "Maggie says the baby needs two. Why two?"

He rolls his eyes. "Carrie, she probably wants you to get a bassinet for when the baby's first born and a crib for later."

"Oh," she considers this, "why?" head tilting, looking up at him, lost.

"I don't fucking know, Carrie,” exasperated, “It's what people do." He looks at her for a few seconds and crosses his arms across his chest. "Carrie, have you ever held a newborn?" He’s thinking about their conversation in front of Langley.

"Yes - no -, I don't know. I can't remember...My nieces were born when I was in Bagdhad."

He sighs, ever so put upon. “Let’s get this over with. The smaller ones are bassinets," pointing in front of her, "the cribs are over there," nodding to the area behind her.

"May I help you?" A short, grandmotherly sales lady approaches.

"Yes!" Carrie says, too eagerly. "We need this," pointing to the bassinet, "and a crib."

"Certainly." The saleslady looks them over. "There's a lead time on some of these. When are you due?"

"In a month."

"First baby?" turning to Quinn.

Anticipating this, and amused as fuck that Carrie didn’t, he decides to enjoy every second. "Yes," glancing down at her nametag, " _Susan_ , it's our first," waxing charm.

"It’s so exciting, isn’t it? Girl or boy?" Susan asks, still addressing him.

Carrie interjects, "He's not−"

"Girl." Quinn says over her. "We're over the moon, aren't we, sweetheart?" He reaches over and squeezes Carrie's neck affectionately before sitting down on a pink glider, clasping his hands behind his head and crossing his legs on the matching ottoman. "We're hoping for a natural birth, right, honey?" Then, turning to Susan, he actually winks. Amazing. He'll even flirt with the fucking AARP.

Slow on the uptake but finally getting it, Carrie glares down at his laughing eyes.

"Well, let's hope she gets your dimples." It’s Carrie’s turn to roll her eyes. Then, still focused on Quinn, Susan says, "I hope you’re doing Lamaze. Its very helpful."

"What−" Carrie falters.

He interrupts her again, "Deep breathing isn’t Carrie’s thing. We’re working on it."

Carrie coughs or gags, he can't be sure. Needing to get out of this conversation, Carrie shifts to bossy, “Okay, can we get on with this? I need either white or yellow.” They settle on the floor models for both, next day delivery. Not for nothing, Quinn had rung in with tips on the finer points of crib design.

"Will you be needing anything else?" Susan inquires.

The torture almost finished, Quinn goes and fucks it up some more.

Punishing her for every transgression of the last few months, Quinn puts an arm around Carrie’s shoulders. "I'm sure we need other things, Susan,” looking down at Carrie, “Sweetheart?"

Carrie, shrugs off his arm. "My sister has hand-me-downs."

"Will you be nursing?"

" _Great_ question, Susan," looking down at Carrie, "Sweetie, are we going to nurse her?" She almost hits him.

"Uh, no - I don't know - I haven't really thought about it. I'm going back to work right away."

Susan gives her a sympathetic look. "It's so important for the baby's health, particularly in the first few weeks."

Quinn nods at the saleslady so earnestly, Carrie pinches his back, hard. "I've read that too, Susan. What do you suggest should we do?" winking at Carrie.

"You can always pump. Shall I show you the Medelas?"

"Pump?" What the fuck? “No –“

"Yes, Susan, please, show us the pumps." Quinn interrupts.

Moments later, trailing behind Susan as they walk down the aisle. Carrie hisses, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Having the most entertaining Sunday morning in memory, Carrie. How 'bout you? Having fun?"

Short minutes later, Quinn decides watching Carrie with a tube in one hand, a suction cup in the other beats every comedy he's ever seen. Sadly, when Susan holds a suction cup up on top of Carrie’s t-shirt, over her breast, he knows his fun is over. Carrie’s eyes meet his with 'I can't do this' desperation painted on her face. Mercifully, he takes the devices from Carrie and hands them back. "We'll think about it, Susan. Thanks for your help."

As Carrie signs the sales slip, Susan smiles kindly at both of them. “Good luck to you both. May I just say what a stunning couple you are? This baby girl will be a knock out.” Clenching her jaw, Carrie sets down the pen with thud.

Quinn, still waxing impending dad’ness, places an arm around Carrie again, smiling at Susan. “We’re a little worried about the redheads on her side, Susan - bad sun burns - but thanks for your help.”

Transaction finished, they walk to the parking lot.

"Mission accomplished, Carrie. You’re welcome."

"You are a complete prick, you know that, Quinn?”

"It was fucking sublime." He’s grinning.

They’re quiet for a long moment.

She shakes her head, eyes clouding. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"You'll figure it out, Carrie. You always do," he replies, somewhere between bitter and confidant.

She looks up at him, wide-eyed. "I'm so scared."

"I know." His eyes flicker past her into the distance. "Carrie Mathison, you took down the most notorious terrorist on the planet. You can handle a baby." She suddenly face plants right into his chest. He freezes for a few seconds and slowly raises his hand to the back of her head.

Into his chest, muffled, she asks, "Quinn, should I be doing Lamaze?"

He chuckles. "No, Carrie. Go straight for the epidural," stepping back, "C'mon on, I'll buy you lunch."

Almost fully thawed now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four days until the next chapter. Business trip!


	6. Toast &  Third Trimester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month of dinners before Carrie gives birth – flirting, fluff, and some important revelations. Quinn’s desire to take care of Carrie is one of the sexiest parts of their dynamic, imo. This is my tribute to that.
> 
> In response to a comment by Christie, I've borrowed here and there from other fic writers with PURE TRIBUTE in mind (as mentioned from the outset of this story). I think it's clear to most readers that this story is my own. The OJ/pulp riff has been in several fics and originated with Plume_Bob's fic (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3162017) which is one of the most beautifully written fics in HL fic history, imho. She knows I'm a big fan. (She's also a published author at this point from what I hear.) Thanks, Christie!

The strangest thing happened. They became for a brief, beautiful month as close to normal as either of them had ever known.

It started with an argument about toast. Fucking _toast_.

He catches her near a rarely used side entry to Langley sneaking a cigarette. Lit this time.

“Carrie, _really_?” He walks straight up to her, plucks it from her fingers, and begins smoking it himself.

Pissed but treading carefully because she’s grateful he’s speaking to her, Carrie flings up a hand. “Christ, Quinn, both of our mothers probably smoked a pack a day."

“And look how great we turned out,” he shoots back taking a long, slow drag. He eyes flicker over her pregnant form and settle on her drawn face. “Are you alright?”

She hesitates for a fraction of a second and looks away. “I’m fine.”

“What does your doctor say?” She stalls, shifting. “Tell me you’ve seen a goddamn doctor, Carrie.”

“Yes." He looks at her closely trying to detect duplicity. " _Yes!_ " but knowing he’ll dig it out of her eventually, she confesses. “I haven’t gained enough weight, okay? Happy? Jesus, you get pregnant and everyone thinks they have a fucking right to daily cavity searches.”

He returns a pointed look. “Trust me, Carrie, I have no interest in any of your cavities,” taking another drag of her cigarette and exhaling too close to her face. “What’d you eat today?”

“Toast."

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“Carrie, it’s four o'clock!" He pauses for a beat then says, resigned, “And you decided you’d head out for an afternoon cigarette," flicking off ashes with a thumb. “Have you heard of the cafeteria?”

"I'm not hungry."

“What’d you have for dinner last night?”

“Cereal.” At his expression she unravels a bit. “Quinn, don’t, please? I can’t take it from you, too,” looking past him, “even if I deserve it.”

“How the hell have you made it this far in life, Carrie? Seriously.” A moment passes. Fuck. He briefly looks to the sky, making a decision. “I’m coming over at eight.”

“Why?”

“To fucking feed you that’s why!” He’s almost shouting. “To feed that baby, actually,” poking toward her midsection. He steps on her cigarette, turns his back, and storms back into the building.

* * *

Ever reliable, he did. He shows up with a bag of groceries hanging from one hand, glowering on her doorstep. Pushing past her without saying a word, he heads straight to her kitchen and plops the sack on the counter. He fishes inside and takes out a bottle.

“Where’re your glasses?”

Carrie stands at the doorway amazed and a little charmed at what’s unfolding before her. Ignoring her amusement his eyebrows lift in question. She steps to a nearby cabinet and removes a glass. Taking it from her he pours out an Earth’s Best smoothie and shoves it at her, grim-faced. “Drink.”

“You’re kidding,” her eyes laughing at him.

“Do I look like I’m kidding? Consider it an appetizer.”

He turns away and unpacks chicken breasts, rice, and vegetables for a salad. Pivoting back to her he says, “Tell me you have spices.”

Almost speechless - she was expecting take out - she starts to argue, “Qui−“

Impatient, he interrupts her. “Carrie, you can either stay here and chop or, I dunno, go have a fucking bubble bath but you will eat tonight. Clear?"

Pink drink in hand, Carrie just nods and grins because it’s downright comical this assassin chef act. He turns away and opens a cabinet. "Now where the fuck is your paprika?”

* * *

 

And that’s what they did. For a month. Almost every night.

Both knew that their time was short and they would soon be moving on, separately, to the Middle East. Their month of dinners was an unexpected gift; a chance to hit pause in two dangerous lives. It was as if their relationship had transcended so much they both decided to roll with this reprieve and enjoy every second.

Usually they would prepare their dinners together. It helped that she was hopelessly inept at cooking and he played ‘put upon’ teacher exceptionally well. They would cook, eat, and migrate to the sofa where either her feet or head would find their way to his lap. Usually she would drift off and he would lead her upstairs, tuck her in and leave, but not before jotting down instructions for breakfast on a Post-It stuck to the refrigerator door.

They covered a lot of ground in that time. Food was a constant source of sparring.

 

_On juice…_

Early on he ventures into the fridge for the fresh basil he’d bought the prior day when he eyes an unopened carton. “You’re not drinking the OJ I got, Carrie. “

Carrie, slicing carrots from a stool, glances toward his bent back, “I hate your orange juice.”

His head emerges. “Fuck you. Learn to love pulp," tossing the basil on the counter. “It’s good for the baby.”

 

_On spaghetti sauce…_

Days later, as they prepare bolognaise, he stands behind her peering at the large skillet into which she is prematurely dumping all the ingredients.

“Carrie, sautéing means the onions have to be clear before you put the other shit in.”

“They get cooked eventually with all the other stuff. Does it matter?” looking at him over her shoulder, wide eyed, spoon hovering above the pan. He nods his response, crossing his arms. Genuinely perplexed she asks, “Why?”

“For the same reason you don’t wash down your lithium with vodka. It fucks up the results.”

She deadpans.

“Christ. Nevermind.”

 

_On leafy greens…_

A few nights later he attempts an almost-vegetarian meal. Sitting at the dining table, for once, she regards the full fork in front of her and declares, “It’s a waste of chewing time.”

“What?”

“This. Kale. Seriously, you need twenty other ingredients to make it palatable.”

“Carrie, kale is like the healthiest food on the planet. If you eat it now your baby will probably live to be a hundred,” he replies, a little incredulous.

“Yeah, but what’s the point if you have to douse it in salt and bacon to make it worth eating? Why can’t I just eat the bacon?”

“Carrie, eat your fuckin' salad.”

 

_On the culinary arts…_

Another night, after finishing salmon and her first venture with couscous, her head rests on his lap while she lay on her side - the only way she’s comfortable at this point. He reads with a book in one hand while the other distractedly plays with her hair. Unsuccessfully trying to focus on her iPad she finally sets it aside, restless.

She turns to gaze up at him. "Who taught you how to cook?”

He puts down the book and looks down at her. “Dar had a woman watch over us at the home I stayed in. She took a liking to me.”

“I’ll bet. How much of a liking?”

“Enough,” he says with a secret smile.

“Really? And what were your favorite ‘dishes’?”

“Nothing you could pull off, Mathison,” eyeing her enormous midsection. “Not in your state, anyway.”

She pulls an irritated expression. “Don’t pout, Carrie. You have other talents.”

“Fuck you, Quinn.”

 

_On things that matter…_

A week before she's due after a classic steak - he’d bought a small grill at Home Depot and set it up in her back patio - and potato dinner, he rubs her swollen feet.

Despite the excellent dinner, she's cranky and tired, declaring, “I should have been a man, Quinn. This is so much worse than I thought it would be.”

“Implying you gave it any thought at all.”

In reply, she digs her heel into his stomach. He squeezes her toes just as hard as one corner of his mouth curls up. “You’d make a shitty man, Carrie.”

“You think?”

“Absolutely. Though you definitely have balls, I’ll give you that," shifting a hand to her ankle. "You wouldn’t have a job if you were a man.”

She goes up on her elbows, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

He pauses the foot rub in order in order to focus on her latest delusion. “Carrie, do you think Dar or Saul or any of my commanding officers would put up with me if I disregarded orders, lied about my mental condition, had−“ he falters, “ _relations_ with a known terrorist?”

He bites back a smile as he watches her consider this, amazed that she never has before. Ever brilliant and stupid.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you break the rules and get away with it by acting like Saul's kid or crying or flirting−”

“That’s not fair!” she declares over him, fully indignant. “We’re _supposed_ to use all of our strengths to do our job.”

“Yeah, well your _strengths_ , Carrie, are all female, that’s for fucking sure."

"That's not fair."

He tilts his head. "C’mon, Carrie. Why do you think you only work with men?”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m right.” He pauses, developing his argument. “Growing up, did you have girlfriends?”

“Not really. They always seemed judgmental.”

He looks at her, point made.

She flops back down on the pillow, a little defeated. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I do those things with you.”

That gleans a rare, full-fledged Quinn-laugh. “Sure, Carrie, you never, ever use tears or sex with me.”

With that, she throws one arm over her eyes. “Fine! You fucking _win_!” After a moment she props back up on her elbows, reengaging. “I never knew you had such a low opinion of me.”

“I have a very high opinion of you, Carrie. Most of the time.”

A little insulted anyway, she attempts a defense. “It’s not like with you I was ever trying to–“ searching for words.

“I’m all ears over here.”

“Fuck, I dunno…with you it’s different. You always know what I’m doing…you don’t-“

“What? Fall for your shit?”

“I guess. If you put it that way,” she replies, uneasy because she's never very comfortable with self-discovery.

“Yeah, well it doesn’t seem to change anything, does it? You always get what you want anyway,” but he says it gently and looks at her a little more openly than usual. It’s a truism they’ve never discussed.

She holds his look, softening. “It is different, Quinn.” He returns a doubtful half smile. “It _is_ …we’re more…honest.” He nods, understanding somehow.

Looking down at her feet he resumes the foot rub to break the moment. Relieved to have dodged any deeper investigation into their relationship she sits back to enjoy the massage. After a few minutes she declares, “This is almost as good as sex, Quinn…not that I’d remember.”

“I’m not touching that one, Mathison,” as he circles the balls of her foot with his thumb, hard.

She gives a mini-moan. “What did I do in another life to deserve you, Quinn?”

He chuckles. “I dunno, but it was probably a few lifetimes ago.”

She pauses and considers not for the first time all he does for her. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?” she asks softly, thinking about their fight before he left for Syria.

“I already have, Carrie. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He says it so quietly she can barely hear him.

They look at each other for a long moment as his thumbs move up and down her foot arch. “It shouldn’t be this one sided, Quinn. I know that.”

He nods slightly, keeping her eyes. “I know you do.”

“Does it piss you off?”

“Nah,” he quips, deciding to keep it light, “I live in eternal faith that you will one day have a divine conversion.”

Relieved, she goes with this. “I’m not very religious. What will happen during said conversion?” squealing, despite herself, as he presses a thumb to the inside of her ankle above her heel.

“You will one day be reborn into my eternal servitude.”

She laughs, jerking slightly as he circles his thumb deeper into the sensitive area. “Sounds kinda sexy.”

“You’ve no idea.”

 

_On pregnancy pastimes…_

The next night, sitting on the edge of her bed he tucks her in. He reaches up and turns off the bedside light. Bathed in darkness, a faint light coming from the street, he starts to stand. Fitful and not yet ready for sleep she takes his hand and pulls him back down. “How do you stand hanging out with a grumpy rhinoceros, Quinn?”

"Are rhinos ever happy?" At her exasperated exhale he smiles. “More like an obese lioness, Carrie,” taking a strand of hair from her temple and pushing it gently behind her ear,

“Fuck off," but she says it like an endearment. “Seriously. I've got acne and reflux. My hair is frizzing. I’d switch places with a fat lion any day.”

He’s quiet for a moment, gazing down at her. “Carrie you’re always beautiful. Even now. When you’re not being belligerent and bitchy, anyway.”

“You’re lying. How do men stand it? It’s a nine month horror flick you can’t turn off.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know men as well as you think you do.” She looks at him skeptically.

He pauses, contemplating how to explain. “Think about it, Carrie…In a normal scenario− “ he stops and pulls a look indicating that they are very clearly _not_ , “you’ve done something that literally transforms a woman’s body. It’s erotic as hell when you think about it.”

She sits up a little on the pillows to regard him fully. “Right," she says doubtfully, "Eight month pregnant women are not doing anything like that, Quinn. None would want to.”

He chuckles. “Trust me, Carrie, plenty do though not necessarily in conventional ways.”

She groans at the thought placing a hand on her forehead.

He gives her a pointed look non-verbally communicating that he knows precisely what he's talking about. “Shut up!” she laughs softly but a she’s little intrigued, if she’s honest. After a moment she points out, “You never tried anything.”

“Yeah, well, _I_ didn't do this to you and we’ve got some pretty stratospheric issues in the way.”

She’s still a little incredulous as she watches him sitting there in the darkness at the edge of her bed wearing a wry expression as heart stoppingly handsome as ever. They share a heated look laced with humor. To prove his point – they’re still in some kind of a battle - he raises a hand to her cheek and runs a thumb slowly over her lips. Then, as a reminder of their lovemaking months ago, he slowly leans over and kisses her chest at the bottom of the V of her nightshirt, hot and lingering. For the first time in months Carrie feels a shot of pure erotic electricity shoot through her body.

Proving the point some more, he moves a thumb along the side of her enlarged breast over the fabric. She jumps a little as he says softly into her ear, "Just so we’re clear, Carrie, these make up for any fucking frizzy hair," and she laughs out loud because it’s all so sensual and absurd and perfect.

He straightens up and beholds her, his eyes aroused and warm. "Damn, Quinn," she murmurs, with an aroused sort of concession.

Their next look is poignant and so _them_. He won the point, it's clear, as he so often does but what matters is that they're always evenly matched, and it's somehow just right.

She lies there amazed at what he's always able to do both to her and for her and, at that moment, a low-grade panic comes over her. She wants - no, _longs_ \- to return what he offers: his heart…maybe even his soul. Yet she suddenly understands with clarity how horribly unsafe it is in her hands. It’s an uneven transaction in every way.

It occurs to her then that she loves him. Truly. Not the right way. She knows this too; her heart is as conflicted and confused and blocked as ever. But it’s love, nevertheless. Overwhelmed by this epiphany, she sits up and frames his face, kissing him, long and tenderly; she stays with it as if entreating him to be patient, to not give up on her.

She pulls back just slightly, their faces just an inch apart. “Night, Quinn," she whispers.

His soft eyes are all-knowing and a tiny bit sad as they gaze back at her. She's certain that he just read her every thought.

He stands and walks out of the room softly closing the door behind him.

 

* * *

  
They steadfastly avoided thinking about the clichés of their nightly ritual. Maybe because they knew everything would soon change or that she was carrying another man’s child or because the sexual adventures they had shared could easily be categorized as momentary insanity. Instead, in the strange, twisted, beautiful world that was Carrie and Quinn, they doubled down on the complicated love they shared and did what they always did – he took care of her and she made him less dark. It was all unacknowledged but known, nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hat tip to Sara @hellyeahomeland regarding the last bit on love. I’ve often disagreed with her perspective on C&Q, yet her insight and analysis of love – the different ways we love and how terrifying it can be (particularly for Carrie) was an honest-to-God revelation for me and it helped me write Carrie. (Fwiw, I’d have given her credit despite her linking this story on her site; that was a COMPLETE shock.)


	7. Cookies & Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie & Quinn’s last dinner, in S3 anyway. Poetry, banter and some pregnancy-appropriate smut. For the record, this is the exact prescription that was given to me when I was four days overdue. It worked ;-).
> 
> Please comment (of any kind) if you have a moment and see chapter notes at the end for fic inspiration and tributes.

Carrie’s due date came and went. The mere sight of her so rattled Saul he had taken to dismissing her at midday despite her heated protestations and frequent refusals. Her visits to the doctor were almost daily and wholly tiresome. Normal nesting instincts were foreign to Carrie thus leaving her with long, empty afternoons before Quinn appeared for dinner.

On the third day she’d had enough and undertook a project.

* * *

 

At 6:52 she hears the key she had supplied him turns in her door. _Who the fuck is early all the time?_ She thinks. _Seriously_.

“Hey,” he says, plopping the groceries on the counter, “what smells so good?”

“Epic failure,” she replies miserably from the counter stool as her eyes flicker over his annoyingly lithe form.

He eyes the baking sheet in front of her and walks to the counter, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Carrie, did you bake _cookies_?”

She tilts her head and waves an arm over the hard lumps that she’d been trying to pry off the sheet for fifteen minutes. “Actually, I was going for pavement tar. Or a Superglue art installation. _That’s_ what this is and it’s an unmitigated fucking success,” dropping the spatula with a _clank_ and sitting back in defeat.

He crosses his arms and leans a hip against the closed dishwasher, thoroughly amused. He’s wearing a light blue shirt - unusual given his proclivity for muddy colors - and it matches his eyes perfectly. His GQ-handsomeness in her tiny kitchen suddenly feels absurd and she feels ever more pregnant and awkward in contrast.

“Did you grease the baking sheet?”

“No.”

“That would’ve helped.”

“Remind me to put Wolfgang Puck on speed dial.”

“Did you use my butter or your half-fat crap margarine?”

“What do you think?”

He chuckles because she’s genuinely upset and it’s completely endearing. Pregnancy has humbled Carrie and he’s enjoying it, despite himself. Picking up the spatula he pries an edge of a cookie off the sheet and pops it in his mouth mumbling around it, “They’re delicious.” At her disbelieving face he turns and starts unpacking the food. “So, why’d you make them?”

“I was bored.”

“Ah. Got it,” he says, doubtful.

“God has bigger plans for me than Martha Stewart projects. What can I say?”

“It was a good effort, Carrie,” each word intentionally condescending, “learning disabilities are tough.”

In retaliation she wads up a nearby tea towel and hurls it toward his face, missing by a mile. He grabs it in midair, holding it up in victory and laughing at her, outright. Then, ever the master of never letting her avoid what in this case is abundantly obvious, he says, “Thanks, Carrie. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever _tried_ to do for me.”

“Don’t mention it. Next time I’ll just buy you a tub of epoxy for your culinary pleasure.”

They pause for a second, smiling at each other with a kind of shared wonder that they’ve actually managed to get this far and it’s almost ridiculous, the cuteness. He finally turns and resumes unpacking when he notices something unusual. “Carrie?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is there a bottle of wine on the counter?” All of their dinners had been dry on Quinn’s insistence.

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Really?” turning back to her.

“Seriously. She gave me the most fucked up prescription for getting this kid out.”

“And?”

“And, I’m supposed to have two glasses of wine tonight,” she hesitates, “but, Quinn, I seriously have no appetite. I think this kid’s ass or thigh or something has crowded out my stomach.”

He huffs a laugh and says, “You have to eat something, Carrie.”

“How ‘bout PB & J?”

“Carrie, we’re not having a fifty dollar bottle of wine with PB & J,” he says, lightly exasperated.

“How’d you know it was fifty bucks?”

“I’m a sommelier in my off hours. I never mentioned it?” giving her a sidelong glance as he examines the label.

Her eyebrows rise. At this point she’s stopped making assumptions on anything to do with him. “Okay, then,” pondering for a few seconds, “Can we have grilled cheese? We can even make it with the Brie you got and go all fancy-Epicurus with apples and prosciutto, or whatever.”

“Damn, Carrie, that’s almost a recipe,” he says, mockingly impressed. “I think my work here is done.” She’d been smiling but it fades, turning wistful. Their time was almost over and she’d not thought about what comes next. She’d chosen not to.

“And what about your cookies?” he asks, retrieving a corkscrew from a drawer.

“If you can find a jackhammer, they’re all yours.”

“Deal,” he says, twisting the opener into the bottle. “What else did the doctor say?”

Distracted because there was something unexpectedly sexy about Quinn, sleeves rolled up, uncorking the bottle. She finally refocuses, “Oh, uh, you don’t want to know.”

“I do.” The cork comes out with a _pop_ as she gets up and removes two glasses from the cupboard. “This is a young Bordeaux, Carrie. It needs to breathe.”

“Fuck that.”

“Do you have a decanter?”

She replies with a ‘you’re fucking kidding’ expression. He takes the glasses from her, places them on the counter, and pours out the wine. Turning back to her, blocking the glasses from reach, he says firmly, “Five minutes. Now, tell me, what'd the doctor say?"

Annoyed and a little desperate for a drink having gone without for more than a month, she blurts out what she had originally planned to heavily edit. “A mile walk, two glasses of red wine, and sex. Happy? Now, give me my wine.”

“You’re serious?” he says, stunned.

“You think I’d make that up? Apparently I’m the only celibate pregnant woman in the fucking capital.”

With so many ways to play this news, he completely ducks it. “Well, we can take care of two of three.”

She raises her eyebrows, amused at his at his deflection. “One. I already walked. Now give me my fucking wine before I go bat shit crazy pregnant lady on you.”

He exhales, put upon, and retrieves the glasses. Handing one over he raises his with a sexy, teasing smile and finally bites, albeit weakly, “Here’s to doctor’s orders.”

“No,” she pulls back her glass slightly and looks away, nervous because she absolutely sucks at this but is determined to try a toast herself – her plan when she bought the fine wine. She finally raises earnest eyes to his. “To you, Quinn,” clearing her throat, “thank you. For everything…and I’m sorry about the fucking cookies.”

He saves her. “A ‘thank you’ and an apology? Who are you and what have you done with Carrie Mathison?”

“Fuck you.”

“Now, _that’s_ more like it,” he clinks her glass sipping the wine with an delighted-as-fuck smile. Then, with his free hand he gently and perfunctorily cups her cheek, fingers into her hair and kisses her forehead, actions usually reserved for bed tucking-in. “You’re welcome. Now go lie down.”

* * *

 

Ninety minutes later, after two glasses of wine and the best grilled cheese she’s ever had, actually, the exhaustion of the day washes over her.

“I’m taking you upstairs.”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You're exhausted,” he says, scooping her up. “C'mon, I’ve got you.” He usually only does this when she goes out cold.

Red wine loose, her arms wrap around his neck. “Very alpha of you, Quinn.”

Ascending the stairs, he gazes down at her. “Consider my job, Carrie. Does it get any more alpha?”

As he settles her in bed, she looks up and beholds all the male beauty that is Peter Quinn. “You never seem like such a cold-hearted assassin, Quinn.”

“I can always shoot you again. You need a refresher?”

She huffs a chuckle, suddenly a little desperate for this night to continue. They both know this is the home stretch and it’s feeling sweetly final. “Will you stay until I sleep?”

He hesitates for a moment and finally nods, “Sure,” kicking off his shoes, “shove over and turn around.”

“’Shove over’, Quinn?” she says, making room and turning so her back faces him, “I think you missed a few poetry classes in whatever hazing rites Dar put you through.”

“It’s called the _Ivy League_ , Carrie and I’m pretty sure your friends at Georgetown heard of it,” loosely spooning her as his hands find her neck and start to knead, “though I can’t speak for their grasp of poetry.”

Defensively, she shoots back, “Yeah, well the Hoyas could drink you under the table. Emily Dickinson wouldn’t be much help then,” moaning a little as he finds a knot. “What kind of school has a their founder for a fucking mascot, anyway?”

“I take that as a literary white flag.”

“There’s no way the CIA let you take lit classes, Quinn.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Sure,” a small murmur escaping as his thumbs press her upper spine, “but no Shakespeare. Everyone knows Shakespeare.”

“Really? What Shakespeare poetry do you know, Carrie?”

“Ummm…‘” She’s beginning to descend into a massage stupor and says first line that comes to mind: “ _’The course of true love never did run smooth’_ ,” shifting her body forward slightly as his hands go to her mid-spine.

“That’s from _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , Carrie. Not a poem. You’re not going to win this. You know that right?”

“Out Bard me, Peter Quinn. Dare you.” He pauses - they both do - with the dare, remembering a night not so long ago. Eventually he leans forward, his lips tickling her ear and whispers:

“ _‘Such is my love, to thee I so belong,_  
_That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.’_ ”

A little alarmed at the seriousness of the words, she leans back to regard him properly. Quinn’s mocking eyes meet hers and she exhales in relief.

“Sonnet 88. We done here?”

“Didn’t I say ‘no Shakespeare’?” she says, turning back.

“Fine, as long as it’s a real _poem_ , Mathison. No haikus or limericks.”

“Why not? The Irish know their limericks.”

“Because I’ll just out-poetry you. Have you learned nothing?”

“Do you want to hear my limerick, or not?”

“I was _kidding_ about the fucking limerick,” fully entertained because she’s just so _maddeningly Carrie_.

“I _know_ but this is a great one. Dad use to tell it to us when he’d drink too much. He thought it was empowering, or something.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he exhales because her illogic isn't worth arguing over.

She tilts her head toward the ceiling so he can see her profile as she recites:

“ _’A young man on the journey had met her,_  
_and he tried just his hardest to get her,_  
_He knelt at her feet,_  
_Said, ‘I’ll die for you, sweet,’_  
_And she cruelly told him he’d better.’_ ”

The pause is interminable, maybe even an entire minute.

Eventually, she decides to keep talking. “It’s funny, right? Kind of post-feminist. Maybe I’ll read it to the baby.”

“There are no words, Carrie.” Then, because there actually are, he says, “It’s all fucking coming together.”

“What is?”

“ _Nothing_.”

“Okay, Professor Quinn, I’m all ears. Whatcha’ got? Yeats?”

“Blake.”

“Bring it,” she says, eyes shining up at him. At some point she’d shifted to her back, propped up on the pillows, and he’d gone onto one elbow.

He picks up her hand and with the exaggerated chivalry of a man from another age and kisses her knuckles:

 _“’Love seeketh not itself to please,_  
_Nor for itself hath any care;_  
_But for another gives its ease,_  
_And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.’”_

And because he’s Quinn and, well fuck, he’s reciting poetry to Carrie and _when is that ever going to happen again?,_ he gazes down at her for a long moment, his eyes an equal measure of amusement and, if they're both honest, lover’s adoration.

“Jesus, Quinn.”

He saves her, again, with a wink. “Hey, you started it. Now, turn back over. I’ll do your lower back and then you need to sleep.”

Minutes pass as Quinn continues the massage. He’d done it countless times on her sofa but slowly the intimacy of the bed and the silly poetry and the closeness begins to creep up on both of them.

“Quinn?”

“Hmmm,” vaguely aware that at some point his semi-hard state had progressed to a rock solid hard on, he moves back slightly giving himself space.

“Remind me that I’ll be hot and a hundred and twelve pounds again one day.”

“Carrie, you’re beautiful. We’ve covered this, haven’t we?”

“I don’t know...It just feels like I’m getting into something that’s not very sexy and there’s no looking back.”

“You’ve heard of MILFs, right?”

She almost whines, “Why does that not make me feel better?” leaning back to look at him again.

He softens, instinctively understanding that this is not vanity, exactly, but a core of Carrie’s self-image that relies on attracting men. “It’s just been a while for you,” his thumb stroking her cheek. “I assume I’m the last man you slept with?” At her indignant expression a corner of his mouth curls up a little cynically. “Hey, you never know.”

He trails a hand down stopping at her clavicle. “You’ve just shut yourself down, Carrie. That’s all.”

“Well, if you don’t remove your hand from my throat, Quinn, you might be forced to reverse that.”

Instead he keeps his hand exactly where it is, tickling an index finger along its base. “Is that a promise?”

“No. It’s a _threat_. Jesus Christ, have you looked at me lately?”

“ _Yes_.” He sobers then because her insecurities are so baseless. “You know, Carrie, pregnant or not, it might be a good idea for you to figure out how to feel beautiful without sex.” He says gently to soften the blow.

Her eyes fill with tears, anyway, knowing she’s often used sex to destructive ends. “Quinn, does it ever occur to you to soften your barbs?”

He smooths back her hair, stopping to idly play with an earlobe. “Carrie, it’s true.”

“It must get old,” tilting her head against the pillow, her breath quickening slightly as his hand finds her throat again, fingers idly trailing over her t-shirt.

“What?”

“I dunno…This lost-boy-speaking-truth-to-others thing.”

He chuckles softly. “I dunno, Carrie, you tell me. I’m pretty sure _you_ asked _me_ to stay ten minutes ago.”

She reaches up and touches his lips. “Maybe we should talk about your demons for a change," she says quietly. “I detect a troubled soul of your very own, Peter Quinn.”

“That’s not how we work.”

He’s tracing a finger along her bare skin at the edge of her t-shirt and she suddenly realizes she’s starting to throb. Pushing away the thought, she says, “Maybe we should. Tell me a demon and I’ll tell you _my_ truth.” She’s vaguely aware of his hard cock against her side.

“Hmmm, well the only demon that comes immediately to mind is an impossible blond who invaded my ‘troubled’ soul eighteen months ago. How do you suggest I exorcise that?” and he looks at her openly but with enough tease to keep them stable.

Her heart skips a beat, anyway, passion for him mixing with alarm because she knows she’s not worthy of this from him. She settles for honesty, whispering, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

He lowers his head to kiss her, then. Finally. He meant it to be tender and deep; to show her how beautiful she always is to him but her hands go to the back of his head tangling into his hair, pulling him in closer. She deepens the kiss, her lips hot and eager and soon his tongue teases and slowly invades her mouth until she moans, vibrating against him. It might have gone on forever, both of them losing their grasp on both time and control but she breaks the kiss abruptly, sits up on her knees beside him, and gently pushes him onto his back into the pillows.

“What are you doing?” he asks, flopping back, still cloudy from the kiss.

“Close your eyes.“ He keeps staring at her utterly confused, hard and heated. “I said, close your eyes.” He finally complies. “Good,” lowering her mouth to his ear, tickling it softly, she breathes, “Now tell me a time when you wanted to fuck me.”

“You’re serious?”

“Completely,” still whispering in his ear as her hands go to the buttons on his shirt.

“You don’t want to know,”

She knows exactly what he’s thinking. “ _Besides_ the cabin.” _Jesus, this is so twisted_ she thinks.

“Okay. Got it,” but says nothing more.

She laughs softly as she trails a tongue around the edge of his ear and then kisses him on the soft skin below. “Quinn, you have to _tell_ me. That’s how this works,” his shirt unbuttoned, she separates it and her fingers start trailing softly down his chest, circling his nipples.

“Who’s making these fucking rules?” he grinds out, eyes opening, baffled at what’s transpiring.

“Me. Now _close your fucking eyes."_ trailing open-mouthed kisses down the side of his neck.

He obeys though he can scarcely speak. “The Javadi surveillance. When they left you got undressed with your shades open. You fucking _knew_ I was watching you. _Then_ you closed them and fucked everything up because I couldn't see you. What was _that_ about?” he groans as her mouth finds the base of his throat, sucking lightly.

“You need this explained? running the tip of her tongue down the center of his chest. “It made you call me, didn’t it?”

“Carrie wha−” gasping as she swirls around a nipple. “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” and he’s pretty sure he’s about to explode so he opens his eyes again to reorient.

“Eyes _closed_ , Quinn. I can’t do this if you’re watching me,” she says, hands at his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping. “Now tell me what you thought when I undressed for you.”

“That you’re fucking gorgeous,” he chokes out as her hands slide down his hips while removing his clothes.

Job mostly completed, she comes back up and kisses him again, erotically, open and wet, clasping his lower lip between her teeth then releasing it to whisper, “You can do better than that, Quinn.” Her hand moves to his hard cock on top of the cotton of his boxers, palming him. He makes a guttural reply, certain he can’t speak let alone form a rationale thought.

“Tell me, Quinn.”

“ _I fucking can’t while you’re doing that!_ ” grabbing her wrist, halting its movements. He takes a shuddering breath and tries to focus. After a long moment, he finally says, “I wanted to break in and fuck you senseless in every way. Make you scream and beg and come over and over until you cried then start all over again.”

“Now _that’s_ more like it,” she laughs, releasing her wrist from his grasp, lowering his boxers, and untangling them from his legs. She presses down on his hipbones with her burning hands and trails a tongue across his lower abdomen. When she surrounds his cock with her fist, tight, he lurches against her. “Tell me what you want, Quinn.”

“ _Jesus fucking Christ, Carrie_ ,” he groans, and it occurs to him that she might try to torture him the way he’d done to her on the table at Langley. At some point his hand had tangled in her hair at the back of her head and it’s all he can do not to force her onto his cock which is literally twitching with anticipation.

“Tell me.”

“Aw, God…” he can actually feel her breath as her mouth hovers over the tip, “ _my cock in your mouth_ −Fuck. Carrie, _now._ ” She doesn’t make him wait, taking him in, all at once, relaxing her throat, cheeks hollowed as he fucks her mouth. She engulfs him almost fully, then comes up to swirl the tip of his cock with her tongue as her thumb moves up the underside, tracing the sensitive vein, then back down with her mouth. Again and again, faster each time, his cock glistening under her machinations. His moans are constant as his entire consciousness focuses exclusively on Carrie’s mouth, so wet and tight it’s blowing his mind.

“Car−,” trying to warn her that he’s about to come in her mouth when she descends on his cock deeper than he thought humanly possible, lightly grazing his cock with her teeth, and it sends him over the edge. He makes an obscene noise and lurches, his brain hazing out.

She tries to keep up with him, swallowing his cum without complete success and she spends a few seconds licking him clean.

When she comes up and settles herself on her side, aware that he’s still in recovery, she returns her lips to his ear murmuring, “You’re can open them now.”

He laughs, hard, opening his eyes and roughly burying his hand in her hair bringing her down to kiss her, rough and reverently, a carnal ‘thank you’.

“I’m speechless,” he says, echoing her words after their dinner months before and she smiles at him fondly. Then, after a few seconds he says, “Turn around,” and something in his tone makes her aware that he has an agenda.

“Quinn, I don't—“

“Carrie, I’m not asking.” When she turns over he moves closer, their bodies tight against each other. His right hand finds the bottom of her t-shirt. “Now, shut up and just feel. Okay?”

At the first touch of her enlarged breasts she lurches. He starts slowly as if knowing how hyper-sensitive they are then begins to a slow rhythm of caressing, softly squeezing, and circling her nipples but barely touching them. Her soft gasps become groans and it suddenly becomes crystal clear to her why pregnant women do this because whatever cornucopia of hormones are coursing through her system coupled with her abstinence and everything that is Quinn is making her body so hot wired for orgasm she’s strung out with it. Then when his fingers finally find a nipple and squeeze she bucks a little against him and has a brief thought that she might come just like that. _Is that even possible?_

He’s been kissing her neck, open-mouthed, teeth gently scraping her flesh when his hand travels down and unties her yoga pants, finding her bare underneath. He starts to whisper into her ear, “You’re fucking unbelievably hot and sexy,” his hot breath against her face as his finger finds her center, “and wet and tight,” and when his middle finger finds her clit, he merely presses and holds, somehow knowing she’s almost over-aroused. He circles softly once and then again slightly harder.

“Quinn, I−“ but she can’t speak and then she’s gone at his third go around, gasping over a strangled scream as the orgasm hits her like an jolt of electricity. Just like that; like a fucking fifteen-year-old boy. It goes on and on, the spasms wracking her body with an intensity she’s never felt before. He waits her out and it takes a while, his hand stopping, bracing her body against his own until she finally calms.

She’s gob smacked and acutely embarrassed. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she mumbles into the pillow.

He rights her clothes and the sheets before pressing her shoulder into the mattress so she’s forced to look at him. When their eyes meet she knows that it’s okay, more than okay, because it’s Quinn and he’s smiling. “Sure it was, Carrie,”

She starts to say something and it dies on her lips. She can’t remember anyway and the fatigue of her state and the brain numbing orgasm is washing over her.

“Shhhhh,” kissing her forehead as is their habit he shifts her back to her side and settles against her. “Carrie, just sleep. I’m not going anywhere until you’re settled.”

Minutes later, she slips into a deep, almost comatose state. Quinn carefully extricates himself. When he leans down to kiss her cheek he pauses looking over her profile and it’s bittersweet. He whispers, “I love you,” knowing, somehow, as he closes the door that it’s the final time he’ll be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter in S3 to come.
> 
> A note on tributes. As mentioned, this story was written in Dec/Jan to help with Quinn-grief. I read many fics during this time including two for which this story owes much: 1) I assumed readers knew Plume_Bob’s legendary fic “we tried the world…” (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3162017) and would recognize my blatant borrowing of a few lines and tropes – as others have done - as tribute. Specifically, the early structure (e.g. “The first time was…”), the “fucking hell, Carrie” line in Ch. 1, the OJ/pulp line in Ch. 6, and chocolate chip cookie/butter riff in this chapter. (The finger/wall smut trope is so frequently repeated, I’ve no idea if it started with Plume_Bob!); 2) SourCherryBlossom’s “Internal Breach” (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3062270/chapters/6645176) is a captivating rewrite of S4 and has some of the best smut anywhere. (If you love Ignition and haven’t read it…GO). Both authors know that I worship them! 
> 
> (While I’m at it, in this chapter I’ve directly lifted Shakespeare, Blake and a silly limerick I found on the web for which no author was apparent. I trust they don’t mind! ;-))


	8. Labor & Lilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frannie’s birth.
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed this tale thus far, Please see the end of chapter notes to vote on how you’d like the rest of this story told (e.g. go forth with Ch. 4 & 5 or skip onto where it began in 5.12).
> 
> P.S. All the books named in this chapter are real (I own 2 of 3)!

It worked.

The next morning she went into labor at Langley and set off to find him in what seemed like miles of corridors. She peeled off once into a bathroom, bracing herself against the wall of the stall, faintly hysterical as she realized the contractions were coming closer than they should.

She had never discussed this part with him. It went into the mountain of topics they avoided. _Nevermind_ , she thinks, knowing he would be furious if she had made her way to the hospital on her own.

Minutes later, she swings open the back entry to a large, darkened classroom. Enormous screens line the front of the room displaying diagrams of Syrian cities and targets. Quinn stands, backlit by the monitors, addressing three rows of Black Ops soldiers. For a brief moment she sees him as others do - commanding, incisive as he answers a question, a vision of confident masculinity. She couldn’t tell if the sudden catch in her throat was due to Quinn or the fact that she would soon be pushing out a baby.

He glances up at that moment, seeming to intuitively sense her presence in the recesses of the shadowed room. She’s calmed, unexpectedly centered, when their eyes meet and she finally understands… _he feels like home._ She also realizes that she’s late to the party in this epiphany; that Quinn had been there far longer.

Confused at first, he raises his eyebrows in question. Pushing away her thoughts she mouths, “Now,” trying not to alert the other men to her presence. She’s keenly aware that her hijacking of their trainer - his current role before shipping out to Islamabad - for whom she has absolutely no claim, and in her current state, would appear wholly ludicrous.

He gives a cursory affirmation and announces that Rob would be finishing the strategy session. Taking the shallow stairs two at a time he finally approaches her anxiously. “It’s time?”

She nods, a contraction seizing her body preventing coherent speech.

“You okay?” he asks, bending slightly to try to look at her downcast face.

Carrie finds a chair and collapses into it, plowing her head into her fisted hands. “Uh. I don’t know. Give me a sec. _Fuck_ ,” she grinds out.

He crouches in front of her and has a fleeting thought about another time when he’d done the same. Fucking irony. “You’ll be fine, Carrie. Breathe. Tell me when it’s over.”

She grabs his hand and almost crushes it as a low, intense sound emerges from deep inside her throat. A few moments later she unclenches, her head still planted in one hand as she tries to control her breathing.

“You’re going to be fine," he says, before shooting a firing squad of questions: "Is your bag in your car?” Her head nods. “Have you called Maggie?” Her head shakes. “Do you have your cell and keys?” Her head nods. He dips his hand into the pocket of her suit jacket and retrieves both. “C’mon, let’s get you to the hospital,” rising and helping her up. She exhales in relief because she knows he’ll take care of her and, for once, she isn't going to resist.

He deposits her on a bench in front of Langley and calls Maggie on the way to the car. When he pulls up to fetch her she won’t budge from the seat, leaning forward, elbows on her knees, head in hands again. Leaving the car running, he climbs out and sits beside her as another contraction passes, his hand rubbing her back.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

A minute later he loads her into the car. At his small smile, she says, “And fuck you too, Quinn.”

“Now I _know_ you’re going to be fine,” turning the steering wheel and driving out of the parking lot.

“How the _fuck_ did I get into this?” She’s sweating, her face flushed and shiny.

He considers saying ‘poor life choices’ but opts for, “ _That_ , we’re not discussing.”

“I want a _fucking_ reset button,” she groans.

A corner of his mouth curls up. “Life is full of disappointments.”

She raises her head and almost smiles at the familiar line. “You’re good at this ‘take charge’ thing, Quinn. I’m glad you’ve done it before.”

“I haven’t. I was on a mission when he was born,” shaking his head to lose the memory. “I’m not worried. A baby has nothing on you.”

“ _Fuck_.” Another contraction begins shooting through her lower abdomen and she grabs the hand rest on the door. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t fucking feel like that.” Her head ducks, teeth clenching around a high-pitched sound, this contraction more intense that the last. A minute later she raises her head.

“You alright?”

“ _No,_ I’m not fucking _‘alright’_! You should fucking try it.” He’s actively trying not to laugh and it’s aggravating as hell. “I’d rather get shot.”

“ _That_ I can help you with. Just let know the time and place.”

“Don’t fucking make me laugh, Quinn.”

Maggie is waiting when they pull up to the hospital. She approaches the car and helps Carrie out while Quinn retrieves the bag from the back seat.

“Thanks, Quinn,” Maggie says, as he hands over the bag. “How’s our patient?”

“Irritable, obstinate and increasingly loud.”

Maggie smiles at him. “So, she’s fine.” He nods and turns to Carrie.

“You’re going to do great, Carrie. Promise. I’ll see you on the other side.”

Carrie’s eyes immediately fill with alarm. “ _You’re leaving_?” He nods. “No, you’re _not_. You can’t!” 

Anticipating this, he puts reassuring hands on her shoulders. “Carrie, it’s time for me to go. You’re going to be fine. Maggie is here. Your dad's on his way. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

Her separation anxiety matches with a coming contraction and she leans on the car and grips his forearm.

“ _Why?_ ” She’s shouting.

“Because, Carrie, one of us needs to have boundaries,” bending down and kissing her forehead. “Give ‘em hell, Carrie Mathison,” before nodding to Maggie to take her.

As Maggie steers Carrie away and they disappear into the hospital, Quinn lingers for a long moment, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

 

* * *

She has a Caesarean which almost blows his timing because he has to wait for three days before she’s up for visitors. Islamabad is unraveling and his departure was moved up by a month.

When he finally strolls into the hospital room bearing flowers and a shopping bag he whistles faintly, “Well, look at you, Mom.” He walks to the bed where she’s upright, fingers over her laptop keyboard despite the IV in one arm. He takes note of the empty hospital crib beside her.

He’s amused as hell at the entire vision. “How’re you doing?”

She smiles openly, so visibly relieved to see him a pang of foreboding shoots through him. “Feeling like my best friend fucking abandoned me, that’s how I’m feeling,” gesturing to her smaller midsection, “and like I’ve had a starring role in _Alien_.” He grins. Vintage Carrie.

“That’s no way to talk about her," he says lightly. "Where is she?”

“Getting bathed, or something,” she replies, shrugging.

She moves over to make room on edge of the bed. He sits, placing the vase with flowers on the hospital desk beside her laptop.

“How’d you know I like calla lilies?” she asks, wide eyed, unaware that thirty minutes earlier a florist had seriously worried for Quinn’s sanity. Quinn had contemplated giving her roses in a long, confused trance at the store. Somehow the symbolic quandary of red versus pink versus yellow versus white for Carrie was more than one lone assassin could manage. He and the florist mutually decided on a different floral route entirely.

“There’s a grad photo of you with Maggie in your bedroom. You’re holding a bouquet of them.”

She nods, a little taken aback. _Is there anything he doesn’t notice?_ , she wonders. “Well, thanks. They’re beautiful.”

He nods an acknowledgement, eyeing another arrangement in the corner - a sad assortment of wilting pink carnations and baby’s breath. “From Saul?”

“Yeah. How’d you guess?” she snorts. “He’s not coming, is he?”

“Probably not. Give him some time. Motherhood doesn’t fit his vision of you.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one,” she says, self-criticism mixing with cynicism.

He tilts his head toward the laptop. “Tell me you’re not working, Carrie.” It’s rhetorical so she doesn’t bother to answer. He sighs and places the shopping bag on her lap. “Take a stab at these instead.”

She dips a hand in the bag and beholds the first book: _Sh**ty Mom: The Parenting Guide for the Rest of Us_ **,** and barks a laugh, despite herself. “Gee, thanks, Quinn. I’m glad you have such faith in me.”

“You didn’t even crack the Drescher book I got you last week so I’ve lowered the bar. Keep going.”

The next one she pulls out is _Calm the F*ck Down: The Only Parenting Technique You’ll Ever Need_. She says nothing but leans back into the pillow and grins, amused, annoyed and pretty sure she’s never adored him more.

He retrieves the last book and hands it to her. “This one's for the baby.” Carrie looks down at the small purple book with the title _Go the F**k to Sleep_.

“Where the hell did you find these?” she asks, incredulous that child rearing books with a sense of humor actually exist.

“The Barnes & Noble near Langley. The sales girl knew your type.”

“Ah. Did she recommend nursing guides while you flirted with her?”

“No, but I considered it. She was a hell of a lot cuter than Susan,” he quips with a wink.

She looks at him for a contented moment and feels grounded for the first time since their last dinner.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve already failed on that front. I went for formula.”

“I think Frannie will forgive you.”

Carrie gazes out the window for a long moment. “I don’t know if I’m going to be up to this mothering thing, Quinn.” His mouth opens to disagree and she gestures for him to stop. “Seriously, there’s something wrong with me. Like, _really_ wrong.” Her fingers splay out with emphasis.

“Carrie, no one knows what they’re doing in the beginning. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I’m not just scared, I’m - I’m _terrorized_ …like, panicked whenever she’s in my arms.”

He looks past her, debating his next words. “Carrie, listen to me,” taking her hand between both of his on top of his knee, his eyes searching hers. “Give yourself some time, okay? You’ll get there. You need to–“ he pauses, searching for words, “-just don’t run away from being scared. Crash through it. Does that make sense?”

She keeps his gaze and smiles a little. “Not really. Crash through what, exactly?”

“The fear, I guess,” he looks away, then back at her. “Look, Carrie, I’m no shrink. Just let yourself be weak, to fuck it up sometimes. Let her help you get to the other side of it, y’know?”

“No,” she answers, genuinely perplexed. “What’s on the other side, Dr. Quinn?” She tilts her head, wide eyed, looking confused and so very lost.

He moves his top hand to her forehead and pushes back a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think they call it love,” repeating his words from the month before. The look they share is long and searching.

Suddenly they both realize that they’re having, unintentionally, a parallel conversation about each other; about what she is unable to do with him.

He pulls away a little, bringing them back to solid ground. He is quiet for a moment, wondering if he’s overstepping their many emotional limits but knowing he’ll soon be leaving and aware that this is his last chance. “She can help you understand yourself, Carrie. Putting someone else first does that.”

Her eyes well up, threatening to overflow, and she whispers, “I don’t know if I want that, Quinn. Isn’t that awful?”

“I know, Carrie, but promise me you’ll try. It’s worth it.” When she looks away, instead of dropping the issue, he presses her. “Carrie, _promise_ me.” Her eyes flicker briefly back to him then down to her lap, nodding.

On cue a sunny blond nurse walks in with a tiny, sleeping bundle in her arms. “Here she is. All clean.” Quinn stands up and nods a greeting.

He peers at the baby inside the blankets and exhales with astonishment. “Look at that hair,” his eyes shooting to Carrie.

“I know. DNA has a fucked up sense of humor,” she says, relieved for once at Frannie’s interruption.

The nurse, taken aback at the profanity, pauses and then looks up at Quinn. “Would you like to hold her?”

He moves his head back slightly, surprised. “It’s been a while but, sure, why not?” He takes the baby in his arms and settles her head in the crook in his arm in the way he vaguely remembers.

The nurse turns to Carrie. “Ms. Mathison, the next feeding is in an hour. We’ll bring you a bottle then,” before departing the room.

“Quinn, don’t go all soft on me, Jesus,” she quips, watching as he gazes down at the baby.

Utterly smitten, Quinn glances at Carrie then back to the baby, revelation in his voice. “Carrie, Christ. Look at her. She’s fucking perfect.”

“Okay, you’ve officially been made, assassin guy,” laughing outright at him. “Totally blown.”

He offers Frannie to Carrie. When she shakes her head in refusal, he gives her a hard look and carefully lays the baby in the crib.

He remains standing, shifting, uncharacteristically awkward. “Carrie...Listen, fuck-“ he sighs, a hand rubbing the back of his neck, dreading the conversation about to come. “I ship out tomorrow for Islamabad.”

A long, long moment passes.

“Wha-“ She’s frozen, speechless, abject shock sweeping over her face.

“They moved up my departure.”

She slowly starts to shake her head. “No, _no_ , absolutely not. Quinn, you can't leave now.”

“Carrie, you’re fine. You’re moving in with Maggie. You have her, your dad. They’re hiring you a nanny. Hell, you even know how to make yourself pesto chicken now,” trying for a bad joke.

She’s not listening. “Quinn, _no_! You need to call them. Call them and tell them you’re not going to Islamabad. Come with me to Istanbul.” She looks up, betrayal painting every feature. This is starting to feel monumental and she’s struggling to keep up. “ _Why won’t you come with me to Istanbul_? This doesn’t make any sense.”

They had avoided this topic for weeks. He had avoided it.

“It makes sense to me. Carrie," he says softly. "It’s time for me to disengage.”

She shakes her head, faster this time, looking at him through tears and breaking his heart for the second time that day. “ _Why_?”

Her expression alone almost undoes him. “Because, Carrie, you need time. You need to deal with this baby and all the shit that went down in Tehran- ” faltering, “and you need to unwind from Brody.” He never uses his name.

He finally breaks their look to gaze out the window for several seconds. When they return to her his eyes are tragically sad. “And mostly because I’m so far out in front of this thing between us, Carrie, I’m not sure you’ll ever catch up.”

It was as close as he would ever come to a declaration of love, with spoken words anyway, and it silences her. It’s not like she didn’t know. She just didn’t think he’d ever say anything. She trusted him not to.

“Qui-“

He bends over and cups her upturned face. “It’s okay, Carrie. It really is. I’ve thought a lot about this.”

She’s completely overcome, realizing they’re saying goodbye. “Oh my God,” biting back a sob, “Quinn. Don’t fucking do this.”

“Carrie, we’ll be on the same continent soon. We can meet in Athens and I’ll buy you souvlaki.” They both know that’s not going to happen and the sad reminder of their beautiful night nearly does her in.

“Quinn, I don’t think I can do this without you,” her tears running freely down her face.

“Yes, you can, Carrie Mathison. You are the strongest woman I know.”

Quinn leans down intending to kiss her forehead. He stops when their eyes lock. The look they share is charged with all that they have said and so much that they have left unsaid, understanding that what they share is stronger than any conventional bond. Saying goodbye almost breaks them both. When his lips meet hers it’s a lingering kiss full of salt from her tears and all the longing for what could, maybe should, have been. When he breaks it and looks at her for a final time his own tears threaten to break free.

“Love her, Carrie,” he says, before walking out of the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an “Eventual Happy Ending” and this, clearly, is not it. I take my promises seriously, however. 
> 
> PLEASE help me to end it. Enter in the a comment box below - no need for words if you’re rushed - and vote:
> 
> Vote #1 for Fast Forward to 5.12:  
> An epilogue which would pick up where this story started – Quinn ostensibly dying in the hospital in 5.12. There are so many great recovery fics that have already been written but I’d do my best to keep it consistent with this story. That is, lots of banter, smut, et al.
> 
> Vote #2 for Take Us Through Season 4 & 5:  
> I would tackle Season 4 and do my darnedest to figure out how to make the Drone Queen flirt and lighten up a bit. It may have to involve alcohol…and some smut, of course. (Ever wonder what they talked about on the plane ride to DC with a dead Sandy in tow?) And Season 5...somehow.
> 
> In either case, posting will be slower. Every week at the most. I'm happy to write either. Much of it depends on if you think this dialogue-heavy storytelling to be sustainable and entertaining to read.
> 
> Thank you in advance! 
> 
> P.S. This has been so much fun for a first time fic writer! Thanks to everyone for their kind words. (And I'm always open to criticism too.)


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